


S-Files

by beadslut



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beadslut/pseuds/beadslut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Assigned to investigate Hunters, FBI Agents Dean Blake and Sam Moore discover there is another world out there, filled with things that go bump in the night. That's not all that's revealed, as the two agents discover they have both a past and possibly a future, together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	S-Files

 

**Assignments**

  
Assistant Director Ellen Harvelle had been in her office since long before dawn. The new task force would be under scrutiny at the highest levels, and making the right personnel choice was of paramount importance. All four of her prospects were exemplary agents.

Talley was an intuitive agent, good with people, but two of the other candidates had been his supervisor, and she thought it would skew their working relationship.

Moore was already in place, although he had proven himself something of a loose cannon. The Bureau had recruited him straight out of college; his linguistic skills and ability to see patterns, break codes, were unparalleled. He had been the reason the task force was being established, linking bank robberies to murders, with the apprehension of Palestine Locke, the serial killer.

Blake was an enigma. Highly decorated as both, an analyst and an agent, Harvelle couldn’t shake the feeling that his past was the reason he served in the Bureau. She opened his folder. Divorced. Father of one. That child a son, now missing for five years. Harvelle remembered the case; he had been on the beltway with his ex-wife and son when their car had been struck by a semi. All either Blake could recall was that a man with black eyes had pulled the boy from the wreckage. Neither the boy, nor the driver had ever been located. The ex-wife had survived, currently living in New York.

The fourth file, Gabriel, made her uneasy. There was no reason for it, all the agents had vetted out, and his record was spotless, but Harvelle had a feeling. Gabriel was a kiss-ass, more Eddie Haskell than Lewis Erskine.

Harvelle made up her mind, turned to her computer and sent an invitation to Blake.  
* * *  
Dean Blake checked the email on his phone to confirm the location of the meeting.

An interview with the AD, that didn't happen every day. He opened the door and found himself in a waiting room.

The woman at the desk was on the phone, but looked up to acknowledge his presence. She tapped her identification badge, as she spoke into the telephone. "Yes sir," she said, and gestured Blake forward. He unclipped his badge and held it out to her. "She'll be there. Ten o'clock, yes." She flashed Dean a smile and shrugged, continuing with the call as she handed back his badge and motioned him towards a chair. "I understand. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Good day." She hung up the phone and drew a folder from a vertical file.

There was a chime from the assistant's desk. A woman's voice came over the intercom. "Is he here yet, Arlene?"

"Just now, ma'am."

"Send him in, please."

Arlene stood and walked out from behind her desk. "AD Harvelle will see you now."

She opened the door to the inner office, and preceded him inside. "AD Harvelle, this is Agent Blake." She handed the files to the woman who was seated at the desk, who closed a folder and placed it back in her inbox. 

AD Harvelle wore a crisp, white blouse, a dark jacket hung over the back of her chair. Silver was starting to shoot through her ash brown hair, pulled back into a twist. Shrewd intelligence was apparent in her brown eyes. She was formidable, and Dean stood a little straighter, waiting for her direction. She studied him for a moment, then nodded and said, "Sit."

"Are you familiar with Agent Sam Moore?" she asked.

"I know the name," answered Dean, slowly, "the agents in Violent Crimes think he was the best analyst they ever had _they said he was cold, soulless_. I hear they were sorry when he decided to move on."

"Agent Moore has become devoted to an unassigned project outside the bureau mainstream. Inexplicable, unsolved cases.” Harvelle measured him with a glance.

“As you know, Agent Blake, cold cases are usually left to the local LEOs, but Agent Moore had a theory that there might be patterns to them. Some of the cases are old; many are exceedingly odd. When I took over this position from the previous AD, there was a locked file in the desk with a list of these cases, dating all the way back to Clyde Tolson. He designated them all with the letter 's', so we call them the S-Files."

Blake admired the elegance with which she didn't say she knew he'd been following up on his own cold case.

She opened the file folder and turned it so the Blake could see its contents.

The folder held a map and photos. "What we have, Agent Blake, is an unsolved case. This handprint was found in Fitchburg, Wisconsin, on the windowsill of a home where a child was attacked in his bed."

She met his startled eyes with a solemn gaze. "It's not human."

Blake looked at the picture, then at Harvelle. What kind of a snipe hunt was going on here?

She leaned back in her chair. “The FBI would like to offer you the opportunity to follow these cases, to investigate the perpetrators, and bring them to justice for any crimes they may have committed. The resources of the Bureau will be at your disposal; you'll be reporting directly to me.” She studied him in silence. “Do you accept?”

Blake looked seriously at Harvelle. From all indications, this assignment was one that could make or break an agent, and he had already been broken. Maybe there would be an opportunity to find out what had happened to his son. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Arlene will provide you with the location of your office space. God have mercy on you.” Harvelle closed the folders.  
She looked up, surprised to see him still there, and waved him out. “Shoo, get to work.”

 

 

 

 

 

  
;

 

 

 

  
**Room 42**

Arlene's directions took him straight to the elevators, and to Dean's dismay, all the way to the building's basement. The office was circled on her convoluted map. Dean exited the elevator and looked at the drawing. A few steps further down a dimly lit corridor, he opened a door marked 42. Tiny windows high on the wall let in the thin light of a dreary Washington day from the street above. A generous office stood before him, with file cabinets lining every wall but one.

Two desks stood in the center of the room, one with a box of office supplies, the other already claimed and arranged. A tall man stood at one of the file cabinets, and turned to face him.

"You must be Blake. I'm Moore. Arlene called ahead."

Dean took in the space, and the man. He was tall. Dark hair, gelled into obedience, and longer than Dean was accustomed to seeing on an Agent. It brushing the bottom of his shirt collar, and the shirt itself must have been bespoke to fit the man's broad shoulders and trim waist without bagging.

Dean cleared his throat, and walked toward him, hand extended. "Dean Blake." He looked around. "What is this place?"

The man chuckled, and when he shook his hand, Dean registered how very large it was. "Sam Moore. This building is so old and overcrowded, we're lucky not to be housed in an abandoned roller rink in a strip mall. Unconventional cases, high solve rate -- that's us; this is our office. So, Agent Blake, what did AD Harvelle show you?"

"A handprint. She said it wasn't human."

Moore nodded. _"Strigă."_  
  
"She what?"

"Strigă. The picture was from Fitchburg, right?"

Dean nodded, feeling completely out of his depth. "The fingers were long, like claws."

"In 2000, there was a similar case in Fort Douglas, also in Wisconsin. Eighteen children fell ill with a sickness that had exactly the same symptoms as the Fitchburg case. The children were found by their parents in their beds, comatose."

"What happened to them?" asked Blake.

"Their immune systems were compromised. None of them survived. It was different in Fitchburg. The doctor treating the children was killed, and the children woke up."

Blake considered. "Who killed him?"

Moore shrugged. "We don't know. Two strangers were in the area, but they were never identified. A fraudulent credit card in the name of Kris Warren was used."

Dean tilted his head. "What's special about those places?"

"Nothing I can find, Before that, there was Ogdenville. Before that, North Haverbrook and Brockway. Every fifteen to twenty years, this thing hits a new town. I've traced it all the way to Black River Falls, Wisconsin in the 1890s."

Dean knew the look on his face was comical. Moore looked at him, weighing his reactions "I’ve got a half dozen of these unexplained cases, all different flavors. Why don't you take a minute and get settled in? I'll get us some coffee."

Looking around, Dean could see there was a map of the United States on one wall, with colored thread and push pins winding their way across the country. He located Fitchburg under an orange push pin, and followed the thread to other locations Moore had mentioned, also marked in orange. He nodded to himself. It was a good system, and he thought he might be able to understand how Moore organized his data.

He slipped out of his jacket and hung it over the back of what he supposed was his chair and started to take office supplies out of the box, opening desk drawers to place them where he wanted them.

Moore returned with two cardboard cups. "The machine down here is a well-kept secret. I'll swear you to it, okay? Best machine coffee in the building. Cafeteria's no better. Coffee shop across the street when we need the real thing." His full lips twisted in apology. "I don't know how you take it, so, it's black. There's sugar in my desk, maybe creamer if you’re really lucky."

Dean looked at Agent Moore, and finally admitted what his libido had been telling him all along; his new partner was smoking hot. "Black's fine. Thank you."

He brought his attention back to the wall where Moore was pointing at the map.

"Those cases AD Harvelle showed you, they're just the tip of the iceberg." He indicated a bank of file cabinets. "These are all the files of unsolved crimes -- mysteries, if you will -- that are just plain inexplicable." He looked at Dean, as if gauging his temperament. "The agency calls them S-Files; they had to designate them with some classification, and the first AD chose 'S'."

Dean didn't say anything, but raised an eyebrow.

"Strange, spooky, supernatural, no idea what he was thinking."

Moore shrugged and continued, gesturing at the white pins. "Here, we have a string of killings that match an unusual MO. Eyes burned out, a single stab wound in the chest. The weapon, one that we haven't been able to identify, seems to cauterize the wounds. There is no blood at the scene, although the victims were plainly killed in situ. They may or may not be linked to Hunters."

A woman on the screen lay sprawled in a parking lot. Odd shadows surrounded her body, and Dean squinted at the screen. He reached back into his jacket pocket for his case notebook, and noted what he observed, along with a quick sketch. They reminded him of something, but he couldn't put a name to it. Nevermind, it would come to him.

"Hunters?"

"Yeah. The Bureau believes them to be a cult of serial killers, and the Behavioral Sciences Unit tells us they are dangerous to the public because it appears they choose their victims at random, for the sake of convenience. Questions?"

"Why 'hunters'?" asked Dean.

"It's what they do. Their motto. Saving People, Hunting Things."

Flipping to another window, he grimaced. "Nursery fires. All occurring when the child was 6 months old, and resulting in the death of their mothers. I hate these." He looked at Dean, and appeared to make up his mind about something.  
"These fires," he gestured at the screen, "all happened in the early 80's. I'm looking into some cases from 2006, and some that happened last year. We are keeping track of the children we've identified. There are a number of unexplained deaths and disappearances associated with them, but nothing the Bureau can pursue at this time."

"Am I in those files?" asked Dean. "My family?".

Sam nodded. "Twice. Once for the fire. Once for when your son was abducted."

"You've read the reports, then." he said flatly.

"Yes. The fire was the first link, the strange figure in the nursery was the second. The second figure, the one that spoke to you? That's different."

Dean nodded, not ready to talk about this yet with his new partner. "Look, I don't know you yet --"

"My sister died in a fire when she was eighteen," Sam said unexpectedly. "I can still smell the smoke."

Startled at the revelation, Dean asked, "What happened?" He hoped he had asked gently.

"There was barely enough of her left to match dental records." Moore cleared his throat. "The cause of the fire was never identified, but from the damage and the remains, some accelerant was used." He shook his head. "She practically raised me."

Dean started "Raised you?"

"Yeah. My parents were in Foreign Service. We were never in the same country for very long, and they divorced a couple of years later."

"So, how are they linked to the Hunters?"

At Moore's look, he expanded. "The fires. Not your parents."

"Ah, right, the million dollar question. That's our brief. To find out as much about these cases, including Hunters, as we can."

Dean looked at his new partner. It was a lot to take in, in such a short time.

The desk phone rang, and both agents looked at it for a moment, startled. Moore reached for it. "Moore," he answered.  
He looked up at Dean. "Yes, ma'am. Travel? All right." He hung up and grinned at Dean. "Agent Blake, we have a lead in our first case. We're flying out to South Dakota tonight."

**BWI Airport**

Sam waited for Agent Blake at the airport, habitually early, and took a moment to think about his new partner. He was drawn to Blake, an oddity for a loner like him. Blake's long lashes and expressive features hid stories he hadn't, understandably, been willing to share with someone he'd just met, but Sam wanted to hear every one of them. He shook his head. Blake had been married, had a child. He was hardly going to appreciate Sam's interest.

The concourse was crowded, and a group of men and women dressed in military surplus clothing swirled around him. He could hear bits of their conversation; someone named John was predicting the Apocalypse. Sam grimaced. He had heard something similar from every survivalist he'd ever interviewed.

One of them brushed against him and Sam whirled around at the contact, but there was no identifying who'd touched him. His sidearm and wallet were there, but in his pocket, a small square of paper that he hadn't put there. He unfolded it. In neat block lettering, the paper, torn from a steno book, read 'sulfur'. His gaze followed the group.

Shaking his head, he put the note back in his pocket to consider later, and sat down to wait. He had several emails to answer from the LGBT group he chaired for the Bureau, and a meeting to plan when he got back. He busied himself with his phone, and a shadow fell over him.

"Hey," said Blake in greeting.

Sam looked at the time. Blake was early too, a quality he appreciated in a partner. This is going to work, he thought.  
"Hey. You're early. Let's get through security. I never asked - you have your LEOFA certification?"

"Yeah," Blake said, and towed his carry-on with him to the security gates. He showed his badge and credential and passed through. Sam did the same, and they walked companionably to their assigned gate.

"What'd you do before this?" asked Sam.

"Field office, a couple years. I taught at Quantico for a bit. Marksmanship."

"Huh. Handguns?"

Blake flashed a smile "Could bull's-eye whomp rats if you had the need."

Sam laughed, caught off guard. "I qualified third in my class. I try to hit the range every other week."

Blake nodded. "Gettin' any better?"

"Well," Sam drawled, "they keep passing me."

Dean laughed, and looked at his watch. "75 minutes before flight time - did you get any lunch?"

"No," said Sam, "and you know they won't feed us on the plane."

Dean looked across the concourse. "Biggersons, Fish or Chinese?"

"Chinese. Absolutely."

Over Kung Pao and dumplings, chattering about nothing in particular and waving their chopsticks around to punctuate the conversation, Sam enjoyed himself more than he had in years. He really liked Dean.

Sam wiped his lips with his napkin and dropped it onto his plate. He chugged the rest of his jasmine tea, and picked up the check. "I'm going to hit the men's. I'll get this one, you can buy on the way back, 'kay?"

"Deal. What about your fortune cookie?"

Sam stood at the table. He unwrapped the cookie and snapped it in half, licking the piece that was stuck to his left thumb into his mouth. Trust your partner. He flashed Dean a grin and dropped the fortune on the table before heading to the men's room.

_Hexagram 37 when people need each other to survive, they become families_  
  
Dean watched him go, utterly distracted by the flash of Sam's tongue, capturing the piece of cookie.

He shook his head, to get that thought off his dashboard. Dean couldn't tell when professional courtesy had turned into a genuine liking, and he was sure he was going to enjoy working with Sam, but the attraction might be a problem. With a sigh, Dean unwrapped his own cookie

_Search for your Grace. Lucky numbers 38, 94, 58. 84, 68, 06_  
  
He looked at it, puzzled, then shrugged, and placed the slip of paper in his pocket. He rose and joined Sam at the register.

**In flight**

The gate attendant nodded, and said, "You're being pre-boarded with the platinum passengers. We've upgraded you to first class, since we had some empty seats."

"Thank you, ma'am," Sam said. The legroom was welcome, although he would have been happy with the exit row seats they'd been assigned. They followed the businessmen onto the plane and settled into the last of the seats in first class.

"Hate flying," said Dean unexpectedly.

"Oh?"

"It's stupid. I know it's safe, but I can't help but think there's no way they can stay in the air."

Sam nodded. "I pray the plane into the air. And then back down."

Dean looked at him. "Pretty religious, then?"

"Catholic," Sam confessed. "I try to get to Mass a couple of times a week."

Dean didn't know how to respond to that. His parents hadn't been churchgoers, and he hadn't had much reason to believe in a benevolent higher power. He settled for, "Oh."

With a grin, Sam leaned back. "I won't try to convert you, I promise." He pulled a file from his case. "Want to review the details?"

"Absolutely."

As the plane taxied into the queue for takeoff, Sam flipped open the file, grateful that there was a bulkhead at their backs preventing anyone behind them from seeing the pictures. They were pretty graphic. "We have eyewitness reports of this woman," he pulled a photo of a laughing blonde with a pixie haircut out of the file. "Meg Masters. Normal kid, community college, average grades. A few months ago, her family says," he consulted a bio, "she changed. Acting out, morose. Opposite of her usual character. She left home after an argument with her parents, intent on hitchhiking to California."

Dean took the bio from Sam and scanned the information. "Seems like a pretty normal college kid. Then what, this thing in Indiana? Is she a Hunter?"

"Good question," agreed Sam. "My gut says no, but the facts aren't clear. Surveillance cameras at a truckstop show her getting into this pick-up." He pointed at a grainy image. "About 50 miles down the road, the vehicle was found with the driver inside, throat slit."

Dean shook his head at the photos Sam handed him. "He didn't fight, looks like he was caught completely by surprise."

"Yup." Sam handed him the last photo. "He would have bled out in moments, and there was a considerable amount of blood inside the truck."

"I hear a 'but'."

"There was a puddle of blood outside the passenger door. Like it had been dumped out of something."

"Out of -- what?" asked Dean.

Sam shrugged. "Don't know. She was next seen in Chicago. It appears she was squatting in a building there, on the seventh floor. Police found an altar of sorts, and signs of a fight. There was a set of windows broken, something went out of them with some force. CPD guesses pushed or thrown. Traffic cameras caught this."

The next photo showed a sprawled body on the pavement.

"That's a horrible end."

"That's just it. The camera shows her getting up and running away."

"What?" Dean asked.

"I know," Sam said. “ I'll show you the video when we can use electronics again. A couple of days later, she was seen in Blue Earth. Minnesota."

"How'd she do that?"

"Beats me. In that same time frame, a man was killed.” He flipped the pages. "Pastor Jim Murphy. He'd been there for a couple of years, originally from Lawrenceville, Kansas. His throat was slit."

"Are you saying --"

“Forensics says it was the same blade as the guy with the pick up."

"Ooookay." offered Dean.

Sam grimaced. "They were supposed to send me the crime scene photos, I haven't seen them yet." He went on, "Gets better. The next sighting is in Iowa." At Dean's incredulous look, he raised a hand, and handed him a picture. "It's not like she was under surveillance. She liked riding the bus."

Dean shook his head "What happened in Iowa? And why are her eyes black?"

"Another murder. Guy named Caleb. NSA had him on the books as a small time arms dealer. Lemme see that?"

"Same MO?" asked Dean and handed the photo back to Sam.

"Exactly the same. Huh. I don't know, camera angle, shadows." He grinned. "Lore says it's an indication of demonic possession."

"You're serious." Dean said.

Sam nodded.

Dean shook his head. "So, I am tied to this. That trucker -- Now what?"

Sam wanted to hear the story in Dean’s words, but continued. "Sioux Falls Catholic Hospital had a Jane Doe dropped off yesterday. She matches the description."

**Layover**

The rest of the flight was uneventful, and Dean dozed lightly. Sam studied his face, finding it pleasing. He wondered what Dean would think when he found out Sam was gay. He figured he'd better tell him before the office gossip outed him. He reached into his pocket and found the note he'd been slipped at BWI.

When the plane stopped in Minneapolis, Sam sent a quick email to the forensics lab, and Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Checking out another possible connection." He held out the note.

"What's that mean?" asked Dean. Sam answered him with a shrug. "There's a guy back at the office, he's setting up a program on the computer to look for patterns, I'm having him add sulfur to the search parameters."

Another hour saw them deplaning in Sioux Falls. The rental car was waiting for them, and Sam tossed the keys up and down in his hand.

"Rock, paper scissors?" asked Dean.

They threw, and Sam grinned as he hit the switch to unlock the trunk. They tossed their bags in, and Sam slid into the driver's seat. Dean looked at the radio, and then rolled his eyes at the roof of the car. Sam put the radio on search and grinned at Dean. "Pick something you like. It's only this one time shotgun gets to pick the music."

To Sam's surprise, Dean chose a classic rock station. He didn't hate the station.

The navigation system guided them to the Catholic Hospital and Sam parked the car.

"Dean, she's hurt pretty bad."

"Yeah?"

"Injuries are consistent with that fall she took in Chicago."

"And she's still alive?" asked Dean, incredulously.

Sam shrugged.

**Sioux Falls Catholic Hospital**

They showed their badges at the desk, and were directed to a room on the second floor.

The petite blonde barely made a bump in the bed, and Dean had to replay the surveillance video in his head to reconcile the ferocious black eyed woman with the tiny figure.

The girl's eyes opened, registering their presence. An oxygen mask covered most of her face. Beside her, a nurse with brilliant red hair, was scolding her gently. "Use the morphine, Meg, just push the button."

The girl spoke unintelligibly, and the nurse pushed the mask up. "Don't mind so much when it means I'm me. She looked at the men in the doorway. "Who're you?" Her voice was raspy, Dean thought, as if she'd screamed for a long while.

"FBI. Agents Blake and Moore. We'd like --"

She barked a laugh, spraying blood on the paper sheet covering the bed. The nurse tsked, hit the morphine pump, and glared at the agents.

Meg raised a finger, quelling whatever the nurse was going to say. "S'okay," she wheezed, and looked back toward the agents. "Real FBI or Hunter FBI?"

Dean felt Sam go still next to him. Hunters! Sam had been right, there was a connection.

"You're Meg Masters? Of Andover, Massachusetts?" asked Sam, flipping his credentials open to show his badge. "I'm Special Agent Sam Moore, this is my partner, Agent Blake."

She nodded, more an incline of her head, but the intent was clear. "They have good IDs, too."

Dean cleared his throat. "We'd like to ask you a few questions about Hunters, Miss Masters."

"Call me Meg," she wheezed. "Ask quick, though. I don't have long." She coughed again, and the nurse grimaced. "They saved me. Exorcised the demon within me." A tear ran down her face. "It made me do terrible things.”  
She clutched an item in her fist. "I pray God forgives me."

Sam shot Dean an apologetic look. "God forgives everyone who asks, Ms. Masters."

She smiled faintly. "Pray for me, then, Agent, and don't let them take you. Demons are real."

Her gaze went to the corner of the room, to Dean's left, and he looked there too, but saw nothing.

"I'm ready," she said, and breathed her last.

Dean thought he felt something brush up against him, as all the equipment in the hospital room shrieked their alarms. The nurse noted the time, and typed it into the workstation at her left, before she stilled the alarms.

"She's gone," said the nurse. The item Meg had been clutching fell onto the bed, and the nurse put it back into her hand, closing her fingers over it. "Hospital issue rosary," she explained. "I think she needs to have it." She pulled the sheet up over the girl's head, and pressed the call button.

"Nurse," Dean looked at her badge, "Milton. Can we ask you a few questions please?

"I'll answer them if I can," she said. Another nurse came in, and Milton gestured to the body in the bed. She's gone, poor thing. Let's get her to the morgue."

Sam cleared his throat. He had noted the gold cross on the nurse's badge. "Sister Milton, I have the paperwork here. We'll need the body shipped to Quantico for autopsy."

She gave Sam a tight smile. "I suppose you have the family's permission?"

"We do." Sam pulled a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket.

She reached out for them, but Sam shook his head. "We are meeting with the hospital administrator next." He looked over his shoulder [looking at Dean or looking at Meg]. "I'd like a moment to pray."

Nurse Milton's head jerked up. "I beg your pardon?"

"I didn't see a priest, maybe she chose not to have Last Rites, but it can't hurt anyone." Dean stood at the door as Milton tilted her head in assent, standing next to Sam. Her voice chimed in as he spoke. "Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. May the souls of the departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen."

"You have a lovely voice, sister," said Sam. "Angelic."

"Please. It's Anna. I may have lost my grace, left my order, but I still have a calling to aid the suffering."

She looked sad, and Dean was sure there was a story there, but he didn't ask. Instead, he remembered the fortune in his pocket. He fingered it, and thought about the demons Meg had spoken of, and the thought made him shiver. "I think -- I think I might be supposed to give you this." He handed over the slip of paper, and Anna read it. She looked up at him, in wonder.

"You have no idea," she said.

He and Sam had to meet the administrator, but as Sam turned to go, Anna grasped his sleeve. The hair on the back of Dean's neck stood as if there was lightning in the air, and he looked instinctively out the window.

"Last Rites were administered when she came in, Agent Moore."

**Sioux Falls Airport**

Sam and Dean followed the hearse to the airport. Meg’s body would fly back with them.

"You have the records?" asked Sam, intent on driving.

"Right here," Dean patted his briefcase. "Weird how they wanted to put them with the-- with Meg."

"Say, you didn't smell sulfur, did you?" asked Sam.

Dean frowned. "No, not until I picked up the bag with her clothes."

The hearse took the turn they'd been told to take, and stopped near the plane, still a long way from the terminal. The knot of chatting baggage handlers broke up, and Dean peered intently out the window. The hearse driver had rolled down the window, and was unfastening his seat belt. Between the early morning light and the lack of sleep, Dean wasn't positive, but better safe than sorry.

"Sam, that guy -- I think his eyes are black like that picture of Meg."

Sam was out the door before Dean could finish his sentence, loping toward the hearse. Dean threw open his own door and followed. The black eyed man yanked open the hearse door, and pulled the attendant out, jumping in and driving the car directly toward Sam, who was waving his badge and shouting for him to stop, reaching for his weapon with his other hand.

Dean drew and sighted, hitting the front driver's side tire, making the vehicle swerve. The tires squealed as the driver overcorrected. Sam tried to scramble out of the way, but the fender of the fish tailing hearse clipped him hard, sending him sprawling before the hearse crossed both runways. The tires dropped, then the vehicle bounced and pitched sideways, barrel rolling across an undeveloped flat before it stopped on its roof.

Alarms split the early morning air, and the ground crew ran past him carrying fire extinguishers. Dean was pretty sure a fire near aircraft was a very bad idea, and he could see a puddle growing around the hearse. Grey smoke shot to the sky. He flashed a look at his partner, still trying to stand.

Sam waved him off. "I'm fine. Go!"

Dean ran. Fire licked at the underside of the hearse, and the fire crew braked, watching with cautious concern as the fire ran across the undercarriage, quickly engulfing it..

"Better stay back, that ain't good," said one of them, with a warning glance at Dean. Then looked at the woman next to him. "You think it's got one of them new --"

The hearse exploded.

 

 

 

 

 

  
**Room 42**  
  
Sam hissed as he got up from his desk.

Lifting his head to look over his laptop screen at Sam, Dean said, "Sit. I’ll get you whatever you need, you're not supposed to put much weight on that for another couple of days." He wasn't sure what to do with this new protective streak he felt toward Sam.

Sam grimaced at the brace on his foot. "I'm just..."

"Yeah, I know. Sit. Harvelle was pretty brutal." Dean pushed his chair back, and opened the drawer to retrieve his weapon.

"We didn't do anything wrong," Sam protested. "Followed procedure. Obeyed the laws. Didn't even lose the evidence." He looked at the clock. "Should have autopsy results back this afternoon."

"Amazing that they can get anything from a burnt body."

"Three burnt bodies."

"Yeah. Still don't get that, who was the third person?" Dean asked. "What do we have up next?" He looked expectantly at Sam.

"Well -- Albany PD found a decapitated body last week."

"Decapitated?" repeated Dean, incredulously. "Who does that?"

"I requested they send their forensic reports. We’ll know more once we see them."

"Can't do anything on that for a couple of hours, then. Coffee is what you’re after, right?"

"Please."

Sam sat heavily in his chair and groaned at the three inches of paper in his inbox. "Must be a hundred emails that aren't marked urgent as well. I'd better get started on them."

"Machine, cafeteria, or real?"

"Too much trouble for real."

Dean stilled. The coffee shop they favored was barely across the street, but it was through security and back Somehow, he didn't mind getting Sam some real coffee, and that was something he needed to think about. "No, I'll get it. Be right back."

He could feel Sam stare at his back as he slipped on his jacket and went out the door.

Sam watched Dean go with bemusement. Just having Dean around made him feel like he had someone watching his back. Now, there was someone he could talk to about the strange parts of their cases because Dean knew what he knew. Except that Sam was attracted to him.

Turning his attention back to the minutes from the last meeting, he sent a quick IM to the tech that had filed a grievance against her supervisor. He was delighted that the tech, an utterly straight mother of two teen boys, had filed the grievance on behalf of her flamboyant co-worker. This was how it was supposed to work, people watching out for each other.

He stripped out the identifying tags, and forwarded the information to her supervisor and the next manager in the chain. Intimidation and sexual slurs were not permitted in the modern Bureau. Diversity training could only go so far, but it was starting to make a real difference.

He leaned back, and allowed himself a moment to wonder what Dean thought about the new Bureau, and then, his partner was back with coffee.

Dean put both cups on his desk as he shed his jacket, and Sam admired the ripple of his muscles beneath his shirt. He shook his head ruefully. Not going there.

"Here," said Dean. "Iced caramel macchiato. Two shots."

He handed Sam the coffee and looked at Sam's screen.

"LGBT sharepoint?"

Sam closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah," he said quietly. I'm the site admin." He wondered if he’d slipped deliberately in order to avoid telling Dean he was gay.

"You have regular meetings?" asked Dean, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes," Sam answered slowly. "Thursday lunches - that's tomorrow - in the big cafeteria.

Dean crinkled his nose. "I hate the food there."

"Me too. I usually run out for takeaway before."

"Not on that ankle. I'll get lunch, sign me up." He turned and went back to his desk.

Sam stared. Even if Dean was gay, and he didn't like to assume, it didn't mean he was interested in Sam.

"So," Dean asked, taking the lid off his coffee and pursing his lips to blow on the steaming liquid, "What do we have up next?"

Sam pointed at the map. "Red pins." He drew a file from his desk drawer. "Manning, Colorado. Following the murder of Daniel Elkins, a dozen bodies were found in a barn. They were decapitated. Except for one, who was shot in the head. These," he grimaced, "are vampire slayings."

"What?" asked Dean startled. “Like the Albany guy?”

Sam nodded. In both cases, local LEOs note that there were several assaults in the area. The victims had no recollection of their attacks, but were all found disoriented, with bruising and puncture wounds on their throats, consistent with some sort of animal attack. Their blood levels were abnormally low."

"I thought 'vampires' were supposed to be staked?" asked Dean, not entirely sure if Sam was pulling his leg.

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched. "Different tradition, different lore."

"There's 'lore'?"

"Yup." This time Sam smiled widely, as if he could hear Dean's quotation marks. Dean noticed he had dimples, and slammed his next thoughts into the part of his brain where he locked impulses away.

"Library of Congress has an entire room of books devoted to this sort of thing."

"Vampires."

Sam nodded. "Werewolves, and ghosts and any other nightmare Hollywood ever mined for ideas." He thought for a moment. "Some they haven't."

"I'm guessing this is unsolved?"

"That is so," Sam's tone was far more causal than the conversation warranted. "The bodies had human blood in their stomachs from more than one source."

Dean sat back. "What?" he asked, sure that Sam was yanking his chain.

Sam shot him an amused glance. "The deaths are unsolved, however, a fraudulent credit card in the name of Sebastian Bach was used at a nearby hotel. That might be a tie to Hunters. The card trail led to a roadhouse in Nebraska, where," he grinned humorlessly, "there was a cash only policy."

"What do the owners say?"

"Nothing. There was a fire at the roadhouse shortly after that. It killed a number of people, including the manager, who was incidentally wanted for computer fraud."

"That's fire again," Dean noted. "Lost a house to fire." he stopped, and looked apologetic. "Your sister. I forgot."

Sam waved off the apology as his phone chimed, and he picked it up to look at the screen. "I have to go see the doc."  
Dean nodded. He needed the time to process . "I've got a thing."

Dean winced inwardly at Sam's curious look, but all his partner said was, "Doc, Mass. I'll see you back here." He slipped on his jacket, and limped out the door.

**Let's Lunch**

Dean thought the whole restaurant looked up when Pamela walked in, and he rose to greet her with a hug. "You want I should mark territory?" he asked with a smirk.

Pamela laughed, and grinned at him. "You would be such a good catch, Dean. I cry in my pillow every night, because you're not interested in little old me."

He pulled out her chair, seating her with an exaggerated bow and a smirk

Pamela crossed her legs at the ankle, then leaned forward to take a sip of her water, then put her elbows on the table, chin in her hands. Tell me about your hot new partner."

Dean shook his head. "You're the lustful cockmonster at this table. He is hot, though. Why?"

Her expression turned serious, and she looked away, busying herself with her napkin before looking back at him.

"Here's what I see. He's tall and his eyes are amazing. He doesn't know his own story and you should both be careful in the barn. It's boobytrapped."

"Pamela--" said Dean, eyes wide.

She shrugged. "You know how it is."

The waiter stepped up to take their order. "I'll have the special," she said, before he could even say what it was.  
Dean laughed and ordered a burger. In the five years he had known Pamela, he had come to trust her flashes. They were more than insight, and he filed the information she'd given him away to ponder later.

"How are you sleeping?" she asked.

"Alone, less than I should, enough to get by, Dr. Barnes. How's your golf game?"

"My short game's coming along, but my long irons are letting me down."

"Keep your hands in front of the ball, and your wrists still."

She nodded. "What are you wanting to ask me?

Dean knew his expression was sheepish. "What do you know about vampires?"

She tilted her head, some emotion flitting through her eyes, too fast for him to read. "Your new job sounds interesting."  
"Let's just say--" He cut off the sentence when the waiter appeared with their food.

Pamela moaned with pleasure. "I love duck tacos." She crunched happily at the first of the three on her plate, then wiped her mouth and continued. "I'm unaware of any genuine vampires who've come to me for treatment," she said with a grin, "but there are a couple of different philosophies to be aware of. There are the Sanguinarians; they drink blood. Human blood. They consider themselves to be real vampires."

She reached over and stole a fry from Dean's plate. "There are the psychic vampires, who feed off the chi, the pranic energy of others to balance their own damaged auras. There are also the living vampires - more of a secret society -- initiatory orders where you work your way up into the 'mysteries' They don't usually use blood, but believe committing a vampiric act is necessary for spiritual evolution."

"Like a pyramid scheme?" asked Dean.

"I guess that's as good an analogy as any. If you run across any of them, or better yet, the ones that consider themselves to be Renfields, you send them to me."

"Renfield -- like from Dracula?" Dean said incredulously.

"Sure. People that believe someone's bending their will to make them do a thing."

"They hear voices, then?"

"Close enough." She put her napkin on the table with a satisfied sigh. "I have heard something new though, a group that's trying to mend their ways. They're vegetarians, if you will, drinking animal blood instead of human." She tilted her head. "Are you free to play Osprey at seven on Sunday?"

Dean thought for a minute. "Yeah, so long as we're not playing with your ex."

"Just us, they'll match us up if there's another twosome. I had no idea you hated playing with him."

"For God's sake, Pamela, he plumb-bobs every putt, and plays like he thinks he's on the PGA. With a 9 handicap!"

"Why, Dean? Why aren't you straight?"

"Because I'm not."

"Fair enough. Any word from Bela?"

Dean shook his head. "I sent her a card for her birthday and it was returned with no forwarding address."

"I'm sorry."

Shrugging, Dean motioned for the check.

**Mass**  
  
The doctor told Sam to be careful, but switched him to a lighter, less restrictive brace. He could move more naturally now, without the pain the old brace had caused. The fear of reinjury and going back to the full brace kept him cautious, so in all, it was a wash. If he thought too hard about that, it became a metaphor for his life, so he stepped warily.

On Wednesdays, Sam liked St. Patrick's. The priest conducting the 12:10 Mass was welcoming and accepting, so he could let the familiar service fall around him like a comforting cloak while his thoughts wandered.

_The Lord be with you._  
  
Unwelcome images tumbled in his mind, the dead girl, the hearse exploding, and fireballs, which led him to hell fire and on to house fires, most notably the one where his sister had been killed.

_And grant us your salvation_.

He remembered that night almost daily. He was 14, in his sixth school in four years, first one back in the States since he could remember. Parents in the foreign service meant moving whenever you were told, and Sam knew how to do what he was told. Languages were easy for him to pick up, friendships were hard. Not alone in being alone, all the kids at the American School knew they might be gone the next day. Even more isolating was trying to understand why he didn't react to pretty girls, but the boys in his locker room could make him so hard, he thought his eyes might pop. Brady asking to suck his cock at the lock-in was unasked for but revealing; he'd probably been panting his release when Jess --

He shook his head. That was old regret.

_Lord have mercy_  
  
He couldn't imagine talking to his parents, not when he wasn't sure himself, and they were so busy with the aftermath of the fire, and then they'd moved again, and again, depending on whatever crisis was presenting itself. Church was a constant. His confessors told him that the attraction was normal, but acting on it was a sin. Sam tried not to sin. He was mostly successful; his longest relationship was with his ever present right hand. That confession was a regular one, and his new partner wasn't helping.

_but only say the word and my soul shall be healed_  
  
He prayed, for his dead; for everyone he knew. He prayed for Dean, for guidance. The comfort of the routine warmed him, and he stood while most of the congregation took communion.

_Go in peace._  
  
 **Joanna Beth's**  
  
On his way back to the office, he stopped at Joanna Beth's bar to get lunch. The food there was good, and the Bureau's LGBT group met there often. He liked patronizing the place.

The blonde bartender took his order, and jerked her head at the booth in the back. "Guy asking for you. I'll bring this over."

Sam slid into the booth across from a gray haired black man in a camouflage jacket. "You wanted to talk to me?" Sam took in everything he could about the man. There was an air of confidence, almost menace in his manner.

"You are dipping your toes into cold, deep water, Agent Moore," he said, coldly.

Sam was taken aback. "Do I know you?"

"No. I hope you never have reason to, although I have been leaving you notes."

Sam stilled. The man was dressed in military surplus, like the group at the airport. Most of that group had been male, but Sam didn't remember seeing this man among them. "Sulfur."

"And did you find sulfur?" he asked.

"I can't discuss the investigation." Sam sounded prim even to himself.

The man chuckled without humor. "You taking this assignment, you have no idea what you are getting yourself into."

"How do you know what my assignment is?"

"It's important to what I do to know these things, Agent. Theory and research are one thing. Actively investigating Hunters in the field will bring danger and heartbreak."

"Hunters? What do you know about them?" He leaned forward, eagerly. "ARE you one?"

The man swirled the last of the liquid in his glass and Sam caught the bartender's eye, gesturing for a refill. "What do you know about them?" the stranger asked.

"Um," dissembled Sam, caught completely off guard, "we have reports of executions. Of grave desecration, B&E, credit card fraud and tax evasion."

"You have names to go with these accusations?"

Sam shook his head and rephrased his answer. "I cannot discuss the details of an ongoing -- ."

"You should keep your mind open, Mr. Moore, to extreme possibilities," interrupted the stranger.

"What does that mean?" demanded Sam, weighing the consequences of revealing information against the benefits of receiving something useful.

"Hunters. The do what they do out of desperate personal tragedy" He looked at Sam thoughtfully. "You keep doing what you're doing, and you might just find out if you're a good one."

Sam took a deep breath. "I have a few names, Kubrik, Singer, Winchester, Gordon Walker. Are they Hunters?"

The man inclined his head, spinning the empty glass in front of him. "Walker's a Hunter. He's a good Hunter, in the same way that Hannibal Lecter's a good psychiatrist. He is dangerous to everyone and everything around him, because of his obsession."

"What obsession?" asked Sam.

The man leaned back, grinning. "Walker specializes in vampires. I know you saw the bulletin from Albany. Surely, you can do the math."

"If he's killing people, it's my job to stop him."

The bartender came over with a bottle. The man looked hard at Sam, while the leggy blonde poured a measure into his glass. She handed Sam his lunch and the check; a shot of Johnny Walker Blue was $45.00. Blinking, he looked back at the man across the table, who had disappeared, his glass emptied.

A folded scrap of newspaper lay on the table. Sam couldn't decide if he was impressed with the disappearing act, or annoyed at the man's audacity. He unfolded the paper. Circled in red was a personal ad. Exsanguinates. 716-555-4500.

**Room 42**  
  
Dean was reading a file at his desk when Sam walked back in.

"Hey," said Dean in greeting. "Not limping as much."

"The other brace hurt. He gave me a different one, so now it's just the ankle, not the brace that hurts. How was your lunch?"

"I, uh--" Dean started, "met with an old friend. An old therapist."

"The therapist is old, or you're not in therapy anymore?" asked Sam.

Dean rubbed his face. "She's the therapist I saw when Ty was taken. I'm not a patient anymore, but we are friends."  
"Friends."

Dean nodded. Pamela was a lovely, attractive and interesting woman, anyone would be lucky to be in a relationship with her. He was lucky to have her as a friend. "Yeah."

Sam took him at his word. "Did your friend have anything interesting to say?"

"Yeah, actually. I mean, you probably know all this, but I didn't. There's a couple of different kinds of vampires, at least in her world."

Sam nodded. "The Sanguinarians, the psychic vampires, the living vampires."

"Yeah, but there's another philosophy."

Sam looked at him, surprised. "Oh?"

"Yeah, this group, they're vampires," he shrugged, "but they only drink animal blood? Like, I don't know, vegetarians."

Sam looked doubtful, but then he grinned. "Agent Blake, are you starting to believe?"

Dean snorted. "Not hardly. Look, this vampire fad. It's pop culture, photosensitivity, Goth culture, maybe some weirdos. All the science says it doesn't exist. That being said, if someone is targeting these people, they ought to be stopped. It's not right."

Sam's email chimed. Albany PD had sent their report. He scanned it for information and blinked.

"I don't see we have much of a choice, actually," he said apologetically. "The DB in Albany? ICE information on his phone matches the telephone number on the personal ad the mysterious man left me."

"What mysterious man?" asked Dean.

"I stopped at Joanna Beth's and he was waiting for me. Older guy, good taste in liquor." He wondered if his expense report could carry the shot. 

"Who was he?" asked Dean.

"No idea. He ducked out while I was paying the bill." Sam looked apologetic. "I know I shouldn't have given him anything, but he said one of the names we have associated with Hunters, Gordon Walker, specializes in vampires."

To his credit, Dean didn't laugh. "So, we go check it out?" He glanced at Sam's ankle, but didn't say anything.

"I'm good to go, Dean." Sam said, quietly. He clicked a few keys on his computer. "We have an address. It's near Albany."

"Okay," said Dean, appreciating Sam's 'we'. " Pamela said you need to be careful in the barn, it's boobytrapped."

"What?"

Dean shrugged. "She's never been wrong."

Sam looked at him considering. "All right. In association with vampire killings, we have Gordon Walker. We have warrants for him for murder, credit card fraud, and abduction. That's plenty to move forward on. With the information here, the case with the best option to close is this one.

"Okay, Van Helsing, let's go. I call driver."

**Wynantskill, NY**

Dean ducked out of the newspaper office to join his partner on the sidewalk. He took the bottle of water Sam offered with one hand, sliding his notebook into his jacket with the other. "Thanks. Who’s next on the list?”

"You feel like an ice cream?"

"We haven't even had dinner yet," Dean protested, but Sam had stepped into the road, crossing in the middle of the street, so Dean followed, stopping short just inside the shop, between the wall and a rack of tourist tee shirts. Sam stepped to the counter and pulled out his wallet. “What do you want?”

Dean gave him a long-suffering look,which Sam returned with puppy dog eyes. Dean grinned. Sam was incorrigible, and loved his sweets. “Why not? Get me a vanilla shake.”

“You’re boring,” said Sam and placed their order, then cracked his neck back and forth. Decidedly un-vanilla thoughts ran through Dean's head as he seated himself at a metal cafe table for two.

Sam paid and took the two shakes, then walked to the table Dean was now at. “Here.”

“Nice distraction technique…” Dean peered into Sam’s glass. What is..are …is that a chunk of something?”

“It's rocky road. Live a little, vanilla.”

Dean choked on his shake, then noticed Sam's abrupt focus out the window. He followed his partner's line of sight.

"Dean, that guy."

"What guy?"

"Army jacket, just ducked around the corner."

"Yeah, saw him."

"Looks like the surveillance pic we have of Walker. The one that's supposed to be a Hunter."

"Yeah? You've had more time to study him, if you say so, let's find him."

There was no one around the corner, and Dean shrugged. "Look for him, go up to the house, or find a motel?"

Sam thought. It was dusk, they should find a place to sleep. He looked at Dan, who was licking the last of the shake off his straw. A place with cold showers.

The town was barely big enough to support a local motel, and Sam worried about that even as the clerk poked at a dusty keyboard attached to a wheezing computer.

“It says we got nothing, but I know it’s wrong. I’m pretty sure eight’s still free, even if nothing else is.”

Sam just tried to smile professionally. Dean glanced out the window. “You’d think that there’d be enough business to support two motels, then.”

“Naw, it ain’t always like this. Some people up the hill, they're having a thing, but they don't have enough space. Normally, we’d just send overflow to Cartville, but it's Thursday. They've got Alive at Five today, See, we’ve got the brochures right here, and so they’ve -- aha! -- I knew it. Eight is free.” He looked up in triumph.

Sam tried his professional smile again. “That’s good, we’ll take room eight. And a second room?”

"Oh, no, all the rest of them are full up. But eight’s got two beds, queens even, and the toilet just got fixed.”

Sam looked at his partner. Sharing a room with Dean, that could be a bad idea, but it was all that was available. "We'll take it." He looked at Dean. "You mind?"

Dean snorted. "I played sports, Sam. Shared locker rooms. You think you have something I haven't seen?"

"We'll take it." They both ignored the clerk's laughter as he ran Sam's card. Sam thought the raging hard on he got thinking about his partner wasn't something he wanted to show off, but there was only the one room. He would deal. Somehow.

**Exsanguinate Estate**  
  
They parked the car the Albany field office had given them at the foot of the drive and made their way up on foot.

"Stop." Dean commanded.  
  
Sam stopped, and stood motionless, one foot still in the air.

"There's a tripwire in front of you."

"The place has been booby trapped." Sam said, redundantly, as he put his foot down, nowhere near the wire. "Why?"

"Well," Dean thought aloud, as he knelt to run fingers near the trigger mechanism. "They could be trying to keep someone off the property. Us, other intruders, but the property isn't posted private." He pointed to the deadfall, and a hidden blade within it.

"Pretty aggressive security," offered Sam.

Dean nodded. "Too aggressive for defense. Unless you're right, and someone -- like Walker -- is trying to kill them. Or he set these as traps. Given what we’ve got…" He looked up and shook his head.

"I'm calling for backup," said Sam, taking his cell phone from his pocket.

"Yeah," said Dean, peering into the woods around them.

Sam identified himself and spoke quietly, confirming their location.

"They'll follow my GPS. I warned them about the tripwire, that the place is boobytrapped."

They walked very carefully down the drive.  About 50 yards further, they found the first body. Male, appearing to be in his late 20's, and Sam swallowed convulsively as he searched the side of the path for the man's head, finding it about 20 feet from the torso.

"Someone's killing them," said Dean.

"Sure looks it," Sam agreed. "It's not like he suicided and," he looked around "disposed of the weapon"

Dean was having a hard time believing any of this even as he stepped over blood pooling around razor wire in the dirt. Killing people, no matter what their psychosis was, was just wrong, and lopping off their heads was messy, but organized. The killer would be very dangerous.

Ahead, the house was brightly lit, and they could see bodies on the veranda from where they stood in the twilight.  
A scream came from the direction of the barn.

Instinctively, Dean ran, but Sam's long legs caught up to him, and he grabbed Dean's shoulder. "You take the front, I'll go around the back?"

Dean nodded. Every instinct was to go to the aid of whoever had screamed. Sam was right though; they had to have a plan. He turned on the voice recorder of his phone and placed it in the breast pocket of his shirt. At least there would be a record.

Sam disappeared around the back. Dean looked at the barn, exactly as Pamela had described it. He was confident in her guidance, he hoped he'd told Sam everything she'd said, then took a breath. Someone was in trouble, and it was his duty to enforce the law, to keep them from being hurt.

He opened the barn door quietly.

"Come on in, drop your weapon and tell me what the fuck you're doing here" he heard.

Shit, thought Dean. He dropped his weapon and stepped into the light, hoping like hell that Sam had his back.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded the tall black man, a match for the pictures of Walker. He pulled back the head of a woman, who'd been gagged and bound to a chair, exposing her throat as he gestured wildly with a bloody machete.

Dean stood with his hands raised. It was definitely Walker. He could see three ways to incapacitate the man, but none that did not risk the safety of the woman Walker held prisoner. "I'm going to reach into my pocket for my ID. It's making me a little nervous, you waving that weapon around, sir. Special Agent Dean Blake, FBI." Dean flipped his badge and credential holder open.

"Well, ain't that some shit. Been tryin' to tell you people vampires are real for years. Now you can see for yourself."

"You know who I am, now, tell me, who are you? Also, I need you to let the lady go."

"Name's Walker. The 'lady' is a sadistic, torturing bitch."

Sam had been right. The man looked like the surveillance photos, his eyes burned hot, with the fervor of a fanatic. He took in what the man had said. "The law says everyone deserves a trial."

"Look, man," said Walker, " I take out this vamp. It's a step closer to making it so they can't take anyone else."

"Take -- what?" asked Dean, startled.

Walker nodded. " Take people, turn them. They did my sister. Cuff yourself to that beam." Walker pointed at a support beam with his machete.

"Turn them," said Dean, flatly, looking at the cuffs already hung on the beam.

"Oh yeah, FBI. A very real and horrible fate."

"Turn them toward, turn them into what?," asked Dean, playing for time.

Walker looked at him with scorn. "Blood sucking, people killing, family destroying vampires."

"Vampires."

"Right, FBI." Walker grasped the hair of the woman he held and turned her face toward Dean. "See?"

Shadows fell across her face. Dean thought her features might be distorted by tears and panic, and the gag in her mouth, but he couldn't be certain if there was something else that made her look inhuman.

Walker picked up a shotgun from an open duffle bag, pointing it at Dean. He threw the bloody machete down on the table where it thunked into the wood, and shuddered, blood from the blade pooling on the table's surface.. "Where's your partner, FBI? I saw you both in town, and you'd never hunt alone."

Dean didn't answer and Walker laughed. "Probably gonna sneak up on me, huh? From the back? Well, he won't like it when it gets him dead."

Dean blanched, hoping Sam remembered what Pamela had told him, and closed the cuffs around his wrists.

Walker swaggered over, took off Dean's tie and balled it up, forcing Dean's mouth open, to gag him. "Can't have you warning him." Walker cocked his head, listening. "Here he comes."

 

Dean flinched as a grenade exploded.

* * *

Sam snuck into the barn through the haymow, hoping the cows didn't give his presence away. He wondered if they were beef or dairy cows, when it dawned on him just what they provided; blood for vegetarian 'vampires'.

He could hear a man talking, and Dean's voice answering. Urgency drove him, but he stood at the top of the ladder wondering if his ankle would hold his weight on the ancient wooden slats. He would never have seen the trip wire laid just above the second slat otherwise, and he looked even more carefully, spotting the string his hand would have caught as he held on to the side of the ladder. He carefully descended the ladder into what might have once been an office, but was now filled with large refrigeration units, then pulled the string.

Knowing it was coming didn't stop him from flinching at the smack of the board that would have knocked him down onto the next trigger, and he scrambled to throw himself behind the refrigeration unit before a grenade detonated, fragments flying all over the room.

* * *

"Sorry, FBI," said Walker, without a hint of remorse. He walked to the other side of the barn, and pulled the office door open. Past him, Dean could see Sam's Cole Haans smoking at the bottom of the steps, and splattered blood all around the room. Dean's jerked against his bonds.

Walker turned back to Dean, and Sam appeared behind him. He touched his gun to the back of Walker's head, voice low and commanding. "Drop the weapon. Hands in the air."

Dean grunted and tried to spit out the tie. He slipped out of the cuffs he had never completely fastened, freeing himself from the post, and pulled the sodden silk from his mouth. He retrieved his service weapon and trained it on Walker as he crossed to the table to free the woman.

Walker slowly placed the shotgun on the floor.

"Kick it away. Hands behind your head," Sam told Walker.

Dean cut the ropes holding the woman to the chair, and removed the gag from her mouth. Now that he could see her clearly, other than a bruise to her cheekbone, she looked completely normal, although her pupils were dilated, and her responses sluggish. "Did he drug you?" Dean asked.

She nodded. "They're dead, aren't they?" she asked, "My n-- my nephews?"

"Your nest, you mean?" shouted Walker.

The woman lay her head down on her arms, shoulders shaking.

Dean left her there, and helped Sam secure Walker. Sam glanced at the cuff still hanging from the post, where Dean had been, but shook his head. He pushed Walker to a central beam, and drew a sheaf of zip ties from his pocket, making quick work of Walker's wrists, then handed the rest to Dean, who finished securing his ankles together just as the sheriff's department arrived. Dean stood, rubbing his own wrist and looked over at his partner.

With a smile of practiced diffidence, Sam ceded jurisdiction to the sheriff and they made a formal arrest, taking Walker and the duffle of weapons away. Walker shouted about vampires and extermination the entire time and Dean didn't envy the deputy his ride down to headquarters.

CSU checked out the house and the barn, finding nothing a total of 12 bodies. The refrigerators were filled with bags animal blood, as Sam had thought. Weird, but not illegal. They started bagging and tagging.

"He killed my family, my friends," sobbed the woman. "He stalked us, and killed them!  
"  
Dean helped her out the door, and handed her to the on-scene paramedics. "It's because we're different, you know," she said, still sniffling.

He tugged the edges of the shock blanket the paramedic had wrapped her in to close it. "I'm sorry for your loss."  
She nodded. "Thank you. I'm Lenore," she said.

"I'm Dean. I'll come to the hospital to take your statement, okay?" asked Dean, and at her nod, turned to walk back to the barn.

Sam stood in the doorway to the office, looking at the wreckage the grenade had left behind. "I thought he was going to kill both of you," said Sam.

"And I was pretty sure you --" Dean gestured at the mess.

"It's cow blood from the coolers." He looked into Dean's eyes, clearly meaning to say more, when a deputy came running up to them.

"She's gone!" he gasped out, waving a shock blanket.

"Who's gone?" demanded Dean.

"The woman, the hostage. She's vanished!"

* * *

Sam and Dean drove back to the motel.

"What did Walker say to you about the victims?"

Dean didn't take his attention off the road, but gripped the steering wheel tighter. "I'll play you the recording. He said that they were vampires. Real vampires who attacked humans to drink their blood." He looked sideways at Sam. "He said they made new ones."

"How?"

Dean shrugged. "Doesn't the Library of Congress tell you?"

Sam snorted. "Vampires aren't real. It's a psychological disorder, photosensitivity, a society that encourages aberrant behavior because of popular novels and television."

"So we think. Walker sounded awfully convinced."

Sam unlocked the motel room door and let Dean precede him into the room.

"I'm wiped." Sam yawned, jaw cracking.

Dean stepped closer. "Glad you're not dead."

"You, too."

"Look, Sam--" Dean began.

Sam gave him a rueful smile. "You let me know when you want more than a one night stand. That will be worth waiting for."

Dean's jaw dropped, as Sam went past him to fall face first on one of the beds.

Dean tossed and turned all night. At five in the morning, he gave up, pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt to go in search of coffee and bakery The thunder matched his mood, but he only had himself to blame. Sam's words spun around and around in his head. He had been looking for a one night stand, but Sam was right. Dean was starting to see a future, not just endless days on the job, and he wanted Sam in it. The rain began to come down in earnest.  
He pulled the car back into the motel lot. Sam was coming out of the office. Dan rolled down the window to see what was going on.

"Our flight's cancelled," called Sam in greeting, from under the awning. "Control tower at the airport took a direct hit, so we'll have to get rerouted."

"We could drive back," Dean suggested.

"It's five hours," Sam said, warily.

"Come on, I know a great place to stop on the way."

Sam shrugged. It would take almost that long to reschedule their flights.

**On the Road**  
  
Dean pulled off the highway at New Paltz, just as the rain stopped and the sun finally shone. At Sam's questioning look, he explained "This is where I grew up. You were right last night. Just to be clear," said Dean, eyes firmly on the road, "I want more than a one night stand."

"Good," said Sam. Dean could hear the smile in Sam's voice, flashed him a grin, and spun the tires pulling onto a dirt road. He stopped in front of an old fashioned red barn. "This is -- hey! It's my sister!" He jumped out of the car calling "Sarah!"

"Dean!"

Sam got out of the car and walked toward the siblings.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asked.

"Picking up the last couple of boxes. I already shipped yours. Who's your friend?"

"Sam, this is my sister, Sarah, Sarah, my partner, Sam Moore."

"Partner partner?" Sarah asked, eyes wide.

Sam stuck out his hand. "We work together at the Bureau."

Sarah shook his hand, and smiled. "I thought --"

"We're on the way back to DC," interrupted Dean. "I thought I'd bring him by, show him where I grew up. I promised to feed him, too, gonna take him to Pi."

"Uh huh," said Sarah. She gestured behind her. "The Blake family business."

Behind her, the sign on the barn read Blake Auction, Estate Sales.

"Estate Auctions? I don't suppose you could keep an eye out for --" Sam trailed off when Sarah shook her head.

"We've been out of the business for years, since Dad died. Barn's empty," she tilted her head. "Whatever you're looking for, though, I bet Dean can help you find it." Her eyes twinkled. "You could go antiquing!"

Sam blinked, and looked at Dean for an explanation.

With an exaggerated sigh, Dean shrugged. "I guess maybe I can tell Chippendale from Hepplewhite." He walked over to carry Sarah's boxes to her truck.

"Dean knows more than I do about cabinetry; Dad taught him." she said fondly. Her tone changed, and she said "He looks great, seems in good spirits. I've been worried."

"Why?" asked Sam.

"He's got nothing, Sam. Lost his family, all he has is his work, and it's not enough. His therapist may be the only friend he has. I'm glad he brought you, to put a face to the name. He talks about you, you know. I'm sorry I don't have longer, I have to go, I'm flying to London in the morning. It was nice to meet you."

She walked over to hug Dean, and they spoke quietly for a moment, before she strode confidently to the SUV parked in the driveway.

**Homeward Bound**  
  
Pi, predictably, specialized in dessert, although their menu didn't stint on American classics. Sam opted for meat loaf and mashed potatoes, with a slice of apple pie. Dean started to order a burger, and Sam laughed. "Vanilla," he teased.  
"Fine, I'm in a rut. I'll have the roast turkey dinner. then." Dean waited until the waitress left and looked Sam in the eye.

"Ice cream is the only thing I like vanilla."

Sam blinked. "All right, then."

"All right?"

"Yup."

 

 

About an hour down the road, Dean started to yawn. He pulled into a rest stop and got out to stretch his legs, and get rid of the coffee he knew he'd only rented. When he got back, Sam was behind the wheel, and Dean slid into the passenger seat. "Is this going to be a thing? I drive, you know."

"I'll add it to the list," Sam said with a grin.

Sam kept the radio down, and before long, Dean was sound asleep. He was still sleeping when Sam pulled up to Dean's building. The doorman came out, a stout, older man with glasses and a suspicious look.

"Hi. I'm Agent Moore, Agent Blake's partner. Can I leave the car here while I get him upstairs?"

"Is he drunk? asked the doorman. "Never seen him like that, and he's lived here for five years."

"No, late night, tough case, turkey dinner." said Sam, "He's just tired."

The doorman grinned. "Turkey'll get you every time. How about this. I'll park the car, likely you don't know where it goes, after I let you in upstairs."

"Thank you so much," said Sam. "That would be great."

"Glad to help. Mr. Blake, he's a good guy. Never a lick of trouble."

Dean woke up when Sam opened the car door, startled and disoriented. Sam hauled Dean out of the car, and snaked an arm around Dean's waist. Sam shot a look at the doorman who held up his hands. "I don't judge," he said, and opened the door. Dean made it all the way up to his apartment before he started to sway. Sam looked around the room. "Pull out couch, huh?" he said.  
Devereaux laughed and tugged the glass-topped table out of the way, opening up the bed in a smooth motion.

Sam steered Dean over to the sofa bed and Dean fell into it, pulling Sam down with him, then laid his head on Sam's chest. Sam knew he was blushing, "Don't go." murmured Dean, and started to snore.

"Sweet dreams," said the doorman, closing the door quietly behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

  


 

 

 

 

"I don't understand how the bank robberies matched the killings," Dean said.

"If you're going on a cross-country killing spree," explained Sam, "you have to finance it somehow. Is it horrible to say I'm disappointed it was a serial killer and not Hunters?"

"Would be nice to close another Hunter case," mused Dean. "I ever tell you about the bank robbery in Milwaukee? Guy said he had the hostages locked up because one of them was a mandroid."

"A what?"

"Mandroid. Glowing eyes, took over people's bodies. Henriksen was the lead agent on that."

Sam's brow furrowed. "That's not one of our cases."

"Huh," said Dean. "Mind if we stop for coffee?" he asked, seeing a sign for a convenience store just off the highway.

"Yeah. You gas up; I'll get the coffee. You want snacks?"

"None of that healthy crap, Sam." admonished Dean.

He pulled off the highway and drove up to the pump. Sam's long strides ate up the distance to the door of the convenience store, and Dean shook his head with a smile. Sam's energy and focus were a challenge. He knew Sam deserved someone better than him, someone awesome without the constant self-worth issues Dean had, but it seemed Sam had chosen. They were still in the early stages of their relationship, seeing if they would fit together long term, but they were getting there. He finished filling the tank and looked toward the doors of the convenience store. _Where was Sam?_

Dean shut the latch on the tank and walked toward the convenience store. His hand wasn't on his sidearm, but he was ready to draw.

In the empty convenience store, the staff was absent, registers open and drawers empty. "Shit" blurted Dean, and drew his Glock. Sam lay on the floor, the handle of a shattered coffee urn still in his hand. Dean scanned the area before he bent down to touch Sam's throat. Pulse steady, but no response.

"Sam," he said loudly.

His partner groaned, as he reached for his weapon.

"Dean?" he asked softly.

There was still no movement in the store, and Dean helped him to a sitting position without holstering his Glock.

"Hey."

Sam looked disoriented and blinked his eyes. "Ow."

Dean shook his head and holstered his weapon, "Looks like you walked in on a robbery." He slipped his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911.

"911, what is the nature of your emergency?"

"This is Special Agent Dean Blake, Badge #JTT0331613. I am in," he looked at his phone, "River Grove, Oregon. I need local police and an EMT at the service station just off Highway 5. There appears to have been a robbery and my partner is injured."

"I'm dispatching a state patrol car and the EMTs to your location."

Sam scrambled to his feet. "We need to secure the building."

Dean nodded and grabbed a stack of napkins, motioning to Sam's head. "You're bleeding."

Sam snatched the napkins from his hand and held them to the back of his head, grimacing. "Ow"

Left hand pressing the napkins to his head, Sam gestured with his gun. "There's no one in the store. No one in the lot, one car besides our own. Let's check the back."

They covered each other searching the cooler, then the back office. There was another door, propped open as if someone had gone for a cigarette break. Dean looked out the door and shouted "Stop! Federal Agent!"

Sam followed Dean through the door in time to see one person straddling another, about to hit them in the head with a rock. Still moving, Dean shot, into the air. The man stood and ran into the surrounding woods, and Sam bent to check the vitals of the woman on the ground, just as the sound of sirens reached them.

"Guns on the ground," demanded the sheriff, as she came toward them. "Identify yourselves."

"Special Agents Blake and Moore, ma'am." said Dean, as he backed away from his weapon, hands raised. "I called in a robbery, then we found this."

"I'm Sheriff Mills. What happened?" she asked, as she waved the EMTs over.

They began treating the woman, as Dean told the sheriff what they had seen. Sam retrieved their weapons at the Sheriff's nod.

"You shot in the air?"

"Yes, ma'am. It was a kid, maybe 20." Dean looked at the woman being treated. "Both of them had the same smock, maybe employees?"

"Hmm." she said. "Your call said your partner was injured?"

"Yes.” Sam turned and the woman rolled her eyes at Dean. "I would need a ladder to see that, but the blood's real enough. You can ride with the EMTs, or drive down to the clinic in town. I'll come take your statements formally as soon as I'm done here. Be careful. We've gotten some calls from the area about smoke in the air. Could be a fire, could be something else."

Sam thumbed his phone on. "Cancelling our flights. No way we'll make it now."

"I'm not driving back to DC," said Dean. Sam laughed.

The clinic was busily treating people with bloody wounds, and the staff was harried. A nurse directed Sam to a treatment bay. He sat on the bed, and looked around. "Think they're always this busy?" He tried to look behind him. "Shirt's ruined isn't it?" he asked.

Dean's mouth pursed. The blood from Sam's head wound stuck the shirt to his back, outlining lean swimmer's muscles. "Unless you have a dream of a dry-cleaner, I think it's toast."

Sam sighed, and a woman in a lab coat hurried toward them.

"I'm Dr. Lee. Sorry, it's not normally like this. Something strange going on, maybe in the air." She reached into her pocket and frowned. "Need gloves, hang on." She handed Sam an ice pack. "Hold this on the wound." and went to the back. Through the front door, a burly man with a rifle brought in a young man, whose face and hands were bloody, writhing in his grasp, shouting about someone trying to get him, to hurt him.

"Something is very wrong here," said Dean, and pulled out his phone. "Huh. No signal."

Sam reached into his pocket for his phone, the motion pulling on the shirt stuck to his back. He hissed, thumbed in the security code and frowned. "Me either."

Dean looked around the clinic and spotted a land line. He picked up the receiver as the doctor returned. There is no dial tone, just a high pitched humming.

"That's been dead all day, happens sometimes around here. They keep promising to bury the lines, but whenever we have severe weather, something blows down somewhere. Use your cell."

"No signal," explained Dean.

"Really?" She reached into her back pocket for an ancient candy bar phone. "Huh. Me either. That's weird." She shrugged, thrust the phone back into the pocket, and snapped on purple latex gloves. "What happened?" she asked Sam.

"Guess I walked in on a robbery. Sheriff Mills sent me here to get stitched up."

"Jodi's a good one. Let's get this done." She cleaned the back of Sam's head. "Nice goose egg, there. Couple of stitches and ice. I'll just numb it before I start. Gonna have to trim some of this hair, though."

Sam sighed heavily. "Go ahead.”

Dean laughed. Sam's hair was a character in its own story. At Sam's look of pained self-awareness, Dean laughed again. "I'm going to see if I can get a signal outside, okay? Concrete building," he shrugged, "maybe. Although," he looked around, expression turning serious, "it's an awful lot of weirdness. I don't like it, Sam."

"Yeah. Bring me a shirt while you're out there, can you?"

"Sure thing."

"Doc? Samples are up and they look mighty strange to me," a woman in a lab coat said

The doctor sighed. "Be right back."

Dean raised his phone and walked out He tried, but there was still no signal. Looking uneasily down the street, he noticed there wasn't another person in sight. He opened the trunk of the car and grabbed a fresh shirt from Sam's case, turned and went back inside.

As Dean walked back in, the blood stained young man broke free from his captor.

"You!" he shouted, coming directly at Sam. "You were there!" He grabbed a scalpel from the treatment tray and Sam's shoulder with his other hand, and then stabbed through his hand and into Sam's shoulder.

Dean dropped the shirt next to Sam. He pulled the attacker away, and knocked him down. He reached for his cuffs and sank onto the man's back to restrain him as the medical staff came running. Blood streamed from the man's hand, the scalpel still stuck through it, as he went limp.

"What in the world--" began Dr. Lee.

Sam looked at his shoulder in disbelief, and balled up the fresh shirt to put pressure on the wound.

"Sam?" asked Dean.

"I am having the worst day in the history of bad days," said Sam.

One of the women in the waiting room let out a shriek and ran out the door, the handful of people that remained looked at each other and followed.

"Lock the doors, Katie," barked Dr. Lee at the nearest nurse, who scrambled to comply. She looked at the man who had brought the boy in. "Mark, what in the name of all that's good is going on here?"

"I don't know, Doc." The man said. "I found him out there, on the road from the convenience store. It's Duane Tanner. Boy never did anything wrong, maybe smoked a little weed, but I've never seen him wound up about nothin'."

"Get a blood sample, Pam, there's plenty of it."

The nurse nodded. "He stabbed that man." She jerked her head toward Sam.

Dr. Lee rolled her eyes. "Get that blood work done. There's bound to have been transference." She looked at Dean apologetically. "Let me get some restraints."

Dean looked at Sam, who was putting pressure on the wound. Blood ran between his fingers. "Shirt's had it now, for sure."

Sam barked a laugh, and unbuttoned his shirt, tugging where it was stuck to his back, and dropping the bloody mess into the hazmat bag standing in the treatment room. He looked at the wadded fabric he was still holding, and shook his head. "These are bespoke!"

Dr. Lee came back with a straitjacket; Dean, Dr. Lee and Mark strapped the Tanner boy into it, and then sat him down, with the chair back through the straps.

Dean gestured at Mark's tattoo. "What else do you know, Master Sergeant?"

Mark gave him a cold look. "You serve?"

Dean nodded. "MOS in the Gulf." Past the man, he could see Sam, standing shirtless in the treatment bay, a pretty sight he didn't have time to appreciate. "I'm FBI, now, and my partner's sore hurt." He stuck out his right hand. "Special Agent Dean Blake. That's my partner, Agent Moore."

"He ain't special?" asked Mark, jerking his head at Sam.

"Special as can be," answered Dean. "All Field Agents are Special Agents. What else do you know?"

"Well, Agent, I was eating my lunch when I heard a commotion from toward the road, so, I picked up my rifle and went to see what it was. The Tanner boy, there, was punching at nothin', so I thought I should bring him here. Everyone I passed was either runnin' or talkin' to themselves." He thought for a moment. "Weird rotten egg smell, too."

Dean looked up. Sam nodded at him. Dr. Tanner was stitching his shoulder, when Pam stepped out of the back. Dean assumed it was where the lab was housed. "Dr Lee, you'll want to see this."

"Just a sec, Pam, and bring me the clippers."

"You're gonna want to see this now."

The doctor motioned Dean over. "This is the blood sample from Tanner I know you're not a medical professional, but I want someone else to witness this. It's a virus I've never seen." She clicked a button on the side of the scope to capture the image. "I'm trying to send a picture to CDC through the internet. His lymphocyte count is off the charts, like it's fighting a viral infection. I've saved the images to this flash drive." She pulled it from the computer and put it in her pocket.

"What kind of a virus?" asked Sam.

"Can't say. I've never seen it, nor anything like it. Let's get your head stitched up." She buzzed a tiny line of Sam's hair away, and cleaned the wound.

"Could an infection have made him act like that?"

"None that I've heard of, not that kind of violence. Besides, I've never heard of one that did this to blood."

"Did what?" asked Dean.

Sam hissed as she began stitching. "There's a weird residue. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was sulfur."

Sam gave Dean a startled glance, and Dean nodded. Sulfur was following them around.

"What do you think," Dean asked the Top.

He had his rifle trained on Tanner, and thought for a moment. "Chemical spill? Drugs? Something out there burning causing a psychotic reaction?"

Dr. Lee tied off the last of the stitches, and looked at Sam's chest. "This too," she said. She made quick work of the wound, and covered it with gauze, then picked up the instrument tray and took it to the sinks. "Each of the cases we had today had the same virus in their bloodstream."

"I think we should all get in our car and get out." said Dean.

"I can't go, Dean. I've been infected. You take them and get out of here," said Sam.

"What?" asked Dean, turning to look at Sam.

"Transference. I can't go."

"I'm not leaving you."

"Dean. Go. I don't want you to see me like that." He jerked his head at Tanner.

Dean throws the keys to the Top. "Get them out,"

"Everyone, move, move, move, shouted Dr. Lee.

"What about him?" asked the Top, looking at the boy.

"He's infected. He stays," said Dean. "Go. Sheriff Mills is at the service station by the highway.

"That's where the Tanner boy works," said the doctor.

"Go there. She'll take care of you," said Dean.

"We'll send help," said the doctor, and the door closed in her wake, the first drops of rain starting to fall.

Dean locked it behind them and watched the car drive out of sight.

'You should have gone Dean," Sam said in a low voice. "I couldn't help my sister, I can't help myself."

"You're helping me, Sam." Dean leaned over, and ran his hand down Sam's chest. He stopped with his palm over Sam's heart. "You help me every day, Sam. I'm staying"

"Cuff me."

"Sam?"

"Cuff me. Take my gun. At least you'll have warning."

"Sam--"

"It's not negotiable, I'll shoot myself first."

Dean nodded. "This is not how I imagined you in handcuffs, Sam."

Sam hiccuped, laughing through the tears that threatened.

"Well, where should I cuff you?"

"My ankles. Run the other cuff through and get my wrists."

Sam sat on the floor, effectively hogtied, and Dean looked at him. "I'm not losing you. I already lost Ty and myself; I'm just starting to get it back. Sometimes, Sam, I feel like I am barely holding it together."

"Dean," began Sam.

Dean settled on the floor facing Sam. "Let me tell you." He thought back. "I met Bela while I was in the service. She was a finder, not particular about how she got hold of the things she was commissioned to get, especially in a war zone. She was funny, and we drank a lot. She got pregnant, so I married her, and moved her to the States. I thought I could make it work, and I tried, Sam, I really tried, but women aren't actually my thing."

Sam nodded. He'd wondered how Dean came to have a son.

"Ty was six months old - might even be exactly the day. I was just back, my deployment was over, and the FBI recruited me. We were in the kitchen of our tiny apartment, and I remember it was hot. I'd just put Ty down." Dean smiled at the memory. The monitor was humming, and Bela said we had to talk." Dean drifted into his memory of the night.

 

 

 

 

  
 _"It's not working, Dean," said Bela._  
 _Dean looked down at his hands. "It's not," he said, finally._  
 _"I thought I could make it work for us, be a family, even though we're not --" she gestured. "I need a man in my life._  
 _Dean laughed. "You have a man in your life, just not between your legs."_  
 _"You know what I mean."_  
 _Dean nodded. "Me too, Bel, me too."_  
 

He shook himself out of the memory, and cleared his throat. "There was a noise from the nursery, and on the monitor, we could hear something wasn't right." He looked at Sam. "It wasn't the greatest neighborhood."  
 

"Ty was the only thing that mattered. We burst into the room to see a scruffy man fighting with another man in the nursery, one with yellow eyes. The yellow eyed man pointed at Bela. I don't know what kind of a weapon he had, Sam. but it would have sliced Bela in two if the scruffy looking guy hadn't slapped his arm. Bela was screaming and bleeding, they were fighting between us and Ty's crib. Ty was crying, and I didn't have the first clue what was going on."

Sam sat enthralled. "Then what?" he asked.  
 

The scruffy man knocked the other guy out of the way, and pulled out a revolver. A real six-shooter. The other guy glared at us, and the room caught fire, then he vanished. The curtains were ablaze, and the other guy, the scruffy one grabbed Ty out of the crib and shoved him at Bela. He looked at me, Sam, and said 'Take your family and run, son, don't look back.' I scooped them both up and ran out into the street."

Dean looked at his watch. An hour gone, maybe two since Sam had been attacked. "How are you feeling?"

"The same. Everything hurts, but otherwise, I'm fine."

Dean got up and rummaged through the cupboards. He found some ibuprofen and dumped four into his hand. In the refrigerator, there was a bottle of water, and he brought them to Sam. "Here. This'll help."

Sam looked at him and gestured with his cuffed hands.

"Ah, shit." Dean dropped the pills onto Sam's tongue and held the bottle for him to drink.

"Thanks, man. Why don't I feel sick, or crazy?"

"Beats me." Dean scratched his head. I've never been able to get over the feeling I've heard those words before. 'Run and don't look back.' Weird, huh?"

Sam leaned back against the examination table. "When Jess died, I was at the church, at a lock-in. It's a youth group thing. My folks rented this house because it was closer to the 'good' schools they wanted me and Jess in. We were posted in the States for the first time in a long time, and mom wanted us to make friends. I uh, buddied up with Brady, in the bathroom. That was the first blow job of my life, and an hour later, the cops were there to get me." He changed the subject abruptly. "There's so much I want to say to you, we were supposed to have time."

"We'll have time, Sam," Dean said. "You never asked me about Ty."

"Wanted you to tell me when the time was right." Sam snorted. "The time is so damned wrong."

"I'll tell you anyway." said Dean. "You can imagine, after the fire, we were homeless, and Bela and I agreed to a divorce. She took Ty, and I got to have him weekends. When he was eight, the three of us were driving back from his baseball game, when a semi broadsided us. Bela and I were pinned, and the driver of the truck got out, and took Ty out of the car. I heard a shot, and that's the last I've seen of my son. You read the file. Guy had black eyes. What the hell does that mean, Sam?"

* * *

Dean looked at his watch. Four and a half hours. The Tanner boy was moving restlessly, starting to come around, and Sam's eyes were wide. "What happened?" asked the boy. "Why am I all tied up?

"Sam?" asked Dean, "How you doing?"

"Same as I was ten minutes ago. Dean, I don't think I have this thing."

Dean could hear approaching vehicles, and he looked out the doors of the clinic.

It was just approaching dusk, and the Sheriff's car was leading an ambulance through the rain. There was still no one out on the street. Dean opened the door, and Sheriff Mills walked in. She took in the Tanner boy, and Sam bent like a pretzel. "Where is everyone?" she asked.

"They were supposed to come to you," said Dean.

"Not the doc, they got to us just fine, but there's not another soul in this town. Just a word carved into the 'welcome' sign."

"Word?"   
    
"Yeah. Says Croatoan. Mean anything to you?  
Dean shook his head.

Doctor Lee came in next, and directed the ambulance staff to get blood samples from Tanner and Sam. She went to the microscope where she'd looked at the samples with the virus and drew back in shock. "These samples," she said, "are clean. No sign of infection."

"How can that be?" asked Dean. "Check Agent Moore's."

The doctor prepared the slides from the fresh sample and looked at them in amazement. He's clear. So's young Dwayne."

"I'm going to ask you to do a full work up. DNA, bloodwork --"

"Dean? Could you--," Sam gestured at the cuffs.

Dean uncuffed Sam, who stretched out on the floor, rotating his shoulders, still shirtless.

"I brought your bags," said the doctor. "Your car's out front as well."

Sam took his case and disappeared into the washroom.

"I'm serious," Dean said to the doctor, although he was watching for his partner. "The Bureau'll give us physicals when we get back, but I want independent results."

In moments, Sam returned, once again buttoned up neatly, hair styled, a professional federal agent. Dean liked him better shirtless, already missing their quiet intimacy.

Sam walked into the waiting room and Dean followed. The door to the clinic closed behind him, giving them the illusion of privacy. Dean's eyes took a moment to adjust to the light in the vestibule, a washed out blue grey, darkening by the moment. The raindrops made a pattern on Sam's suit that Dean wanted to brush away just to feel the firm muscle underneath it, but the drops weren't really there, they were on the glass. Dean knew that moment had passed.

He tried for a casual tone, asking, "Sam, are you all right?" as if it were any other day.

"Yeah," answered Sam, although his voice shook. "I'm fine, just need a minute. Brushes with mortality, Dean, they change your thinking."

Dean reached out to touch Sam's sleeve, to get him to just look at him. _Was this it? Sam was calling it quits?_  
  
When Sam's eyes lift, it wasn't what Dean expected at all. There was tenderness in Sam's expression that warmed Dean to his toes, warmth he wanted to be blanketed in forever. To get there, to stay there, he needed Sam to kiss him, but he was struck dumb, staring, mouth partly open. Sam framed his face with his impossibly large hands, and made him whole with a chaste kiss.

"Bela's loss. I want you to be the man in my life."

 

 

 

 

 

  


 

 

 

  
 **Moore Family Home**  
  
Sam pulled up to the driveway of a Chevy Chase maisonette, and keyed in a security code. The gate opened and Sam pulled up in front of the house, as the gate closed behind the car.

"This is your place?" asked Dean incredulously.

"Well, it is, it's my mom's place, but she's-- she's not here."

"It's -- we couldn't afford this."

Sam feels ridiculously warmed at the 'we'.

"My mother is in a memory care unit. She's not coming back."

"Oh, Sam. I -- I'm sorry."

Sam shrugged. "Sometimes she knows me, sometimes she doesn't. It is what it is. The place she lives -- it’s for people who know things they might say that aren't okay for public consumption. Come on." He opened the door, and climbed out of the car, cracking his back as soon as he got out.

Dean stepped out of the car and looked around. Wisteria and lilacs were in bloom; the fragrance heady and intoxicating. He looked at Sam over the top of the car. "I am in way over my head here."

Sam strode around the front of the car and took Dean's arm. "Will you come in?"

Dean flashed a wry grin. "Your car, your place. I sort of already committed."

Sam laughed, uncomfortably. "I've never brought anyone here. No one. Ever." He punches in an alarm code and looks at Dean. "The code is her birthday. 1013."

"Sam..."

Sam shrugged. There was nothing he wouldn't share with Dean. "In case."

He opened the door, and motioned Dean inside. The hall was painted white, with a hall rack for coats and family photos on the walls. Sam pulled open the top drawer of an antique chest and pushed a button. The lid of a small gun safe popped open, and Sam placed his service weapon inside. He looked at Dean. "Could lock yours up, if you wanted?"

Dean handed over his gun, and Sam motioned him closer. He closed the safe. "Put your finger here, he pointed. Dean did, and Sam punched in a combination. "Biometric. It knows you now. I'll show you how to get at the ones upstairs. I put them in when mom's dementia made it dangerous to leave my weapon unsecured."

He watched Dean look around. Framed family photos showed his family over the stages of his life. School and sport photos, a formal pose with his mother.

Sam ducked his head. "Mom likes annual photos." He touched the family of four. "This was the last one with Jess."

Dean stepped forward. Jess had been beautiful. Blonde, full of life, her Smurfs shirt a bright contrast to her brother's Ninja Turtles. "I always favored Michelangelo."

"Nah, Raphael was my guy." said Sam. He looked at Dean, Knowing his eyes were dark with desire. "I can give you more of the family history, or I can give you a beer. Then we can decide what you want to see next." He led Dean into the kitchen at the end of the hall, and opened the refrigerator. “I have a fantastic entertainment center."

Dean stood in the middle of the kitchen, and Sam handed him a beer, closing the refrigerator. He leaned his head against it and turned to Dean. "Dean, I don't know--"

Dean stepped forward, and took Sam's beer out of his hand, putting them both on the nearby counter. He stepped into Sam's space, and looked him in the eye. "I didn't come for beer, Sam." His hands went to Sam's waist. Sam looked into green, green eyes, and was lost.

"Dean..."

"Shhh....," Dean said, and kissed him.

He stepped back, shaking his head with a smile. "Something about you Sam, it draws me like a moth to flame. From the first time I saw you."

Sam led Dean upstairs. The doors to the upstairs rooms were open, one bedroom set up with a hospital bed.

"Mom stayed here at first, but I couldn't really take care of her properly. EAP helped me find the place she's being cared for now," said Sam, noticing Dean's look.

He continued on to the Master suite, furnished simply. A king bed sat by the windows, its dark wood gleaming against the neutral beige wall. It was custom made to match the rest of the furniture which was old, antique, made before the notion of a king bed existed. Dean wanted to take time to appreciate the cabinet work, but not now. "The furniture was my grandmother's. Well, except the bed. The double just didn't work for me," Sam explained.

Dean nodded, and considered his partner. Sam wasn't his usual decisive self. "What's wrong?"

"I'm out of my element, here Dean." Sam ran a hand through his hair. How do I ask you to stay?"

Dean took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. "Just use your words, Sam." He loosened his belt and stepped out of the pool of his trousers.

Sam stared at him. For a moment, Dean thought he'd misjudged, but Sam inhaled sharply and walked toward him. His fingertips brushed aside Dean's starched shirt to stroke his ribs, hesitated at his waist, and then warm palms grasped his hips. Sam's eyes asked permission, and at Dean's barely perceptible nod, he sank to his knees, and took Dean into his mouth.

Sam's mouth was magic. The wet heat Dean craved welcomed him, and he tilted his head downward to look. Sam was still completely dressed, strong hands holding Dean right where he wanted him, and Dean felt his cock throbbing in appreciation. He liked it, he wanted more, and he wanted it often.

Sam's tongue swirled as he sucked, head bobbing until Dean staggered from the overwhelming sensation. Sam pulled off with a pop and looked up through the too long hair that had flopped out of the careful, professional style he forced it into. Dean wondered what else he forced into professional style. Sam's eyes were much darker than Dean was used to, and that, too, was hot as hell. Sam grinned, and buried his nose in the vee of Dean's legs, scenting him, giving his balls the same attention as his cock.

They'd done this dance before, but everything was different now. "Sam," he gasped.

Sam rocked back on his heels. "Yes?" He dropped his hands, and stared up at Dean who registered the uncertainty in Sam's eyes, as well as his wet, red lips.

"Were you planning on stopping now?" Asked Dean, hearing the whining tone in his voice.

"No, I was planning on getting naked." His hands went to his tie.

"Leave it. Your shirt and tie. The rest can go." Dean commanded. The uncertain look went away, replaced by curiosity and desire.

Sam shivered, slipping out of his shoes, while he reached for the buckle of his belt. As he stood, he shrugged off his jacket and skinned out of his trousers, catching his socks as he stepped out of them.

The head of his cock peeked out from between Sam's shirt tails, and Dean swallowed hard, as his own cock twitched in response.

"Is this how you want me?" asked Sam, simply.

For now," answered Dean.

Sam reached for him with one hand, the other catching Dean's cock up with his own, tangled in the starched cotton of Dean's shirt. His eyes widened as their pulses matched, and Dean shivered from the sensation.

Sam licked his lips, and asked, "Mind if I go back to what I was doing?"

Dean rubbed his nipples on Sam's shirt front and Sam gasped, the shirt rubbing his own into prominent nubs.

Dean's mouth latched onto the soft silk covering Sam's chest and sucked a moist circle into it. Sam's hand jerked at their cocks, and Dean sucked in time with his rhythm, Sam's strokes becoming frantic.

"Easy, Sam, there's no hurry, we have all the time in the world," Dean murmured before adding, “Or all the time in the weekend, at least.”

"I'm making up for all the years I didn't have you, Dean. I can hardly believe you're here now."

"I'm here Sam, and the only place I'm going is that bed."

 **Samulet**

Sam leaned over, pulling the sheets off the bed. He bundled them up and then grinned, breathing in the smell of sex, when something fell on the floor. He looked and bent over to retrieve the necklace that Dean always wore.  
The charm was an ugly thing really, cheap, made of brass, a face with horns and Sam wondered why Dean wore it  
.  
He shrugged, put it in his pocket, finished putting fresh sheets on the bed.

In the kitchen, Dean greeted him with coffee and a kiss. Sam held him close, planting a gentle kiss on Dean's neck, behind his ear, just to feel him quiver.

"Dean," he said softly. "This is not once. I want this, want you in my life." He looked Dean in the eye to be sure he understood.

Dean nodded. "Same." He licked his lips, and Sam fought the urge to take him back to bed.

"I found this in the bed -- our bed -- looks like the clasp came open." Sam said, and pulled the jewelry from his pocket  
.  
Dean took it from his fingers with a tsk. "Thanks. It keeps coming loose." He refastened the clasp and slipped the chain over his head. "Our bed?"

"If you want. There isn't anyone else for me."

Sam waited, sitting down at the counter, sure that Dean could hear the question in his silence. He didn't need the answer, it was enough to let Dean know that he wouldn't ask for something Dean might not want.

"I .." Dean began, and sat next to Sam at the counter, looking at the floor. "Let me tell you about the necklace. When I was going through my folks' stuff, when they were killed, this was in the safe deposit box. It was in an envelope with my name on it. I'm pretty sure it was my mom's."

"Your mom's?" asked Sam, quietly. This story was a lot more than he'd expected.

Dean nods. "I'm pretty sure I was adopted."

"Oh?" What else could he say, Sam wondered, and let his thigh press against Dean's in a kind of reassurance.

"Yeah. There aren't any pictures of me before I was almost five. You'd think I'd remember if I had another family, but I don't." His eyes lift. "All I have left is Sarah."

"Your sister."

"Probably not, but, she says she doesn't care if we share DNA or not, I'm stuck with her." Dean patted Sam's knee, and smiled, a little wobbly, but it was a definite smile. "I'll probably never know, but I wear it to remind myself I still have questions."

"I have questions."

Dean looked at him, certainty in his gaze "Me too, but not about our bed."

Sam covered Dean's hand with his own, and didn't say any more, sipping his coffee. Dean's fingers curled to hold his hand. It made Sam smile.

"Move in with me."

Dean's look was full of promise. "My lease is up next month."

Sam took the statement for what it was. "Come on, G-Man. We've got work to do."

 

 

 

 

 

  


 

 

 

  
 **Gone**

Sam walked into the locker room, toweling pool water from his hair. Lightning cracked outside, casting stark shadows onto his chest, his red speedo the only color in the empty room. He opened his locker and picked up his phone to call Dean. It was the first night they'd be apart in a month. He put the phone on speaker as he skinned out of the speedo, before he went to shower off.

“Hey,” Dean answered, ”I’m glad you called. I have to meet Sarah in a bit, I wish you could be there tonight."

Sam could hear Dean slip out of his jacket, and the clink of his keys being set on the glass topped table in front of Dean's sofa. His gun, placed carefully, was next, and Sam smiled softly, knowing Dean's routine by heart. In the background Dean’s doorbell chimed.

“Huh, if that’s Sarah, she’s screwed up. I have a limo picking her up with champagne and a corsage, like the prom she never went to. Hang on.”

Sam couldn’t make out the conversation Dean was having with the doorman, but Dean picked up the phone again with a sigh. “Some mix-up. Did you have them send that file on Broward County here instead of the office?” Dean’s voice turned husky and playful. “Were you coming over to help me study, teacher?”

Sam laughed, turned on by Dean’s banter. "I'll be there in the morning to help you pack, remember? You're moving in?"

“Planning the housewarming already. Hang on,” said Dean. "He’s here.". Dean put the phone down, and Sam could hear him open the door to the apartment. “Well, Hi, Agent –“ Sam heard a popping sound and then there was silence.

Sam checked his phone to see if he’d lost the signal, flipped it to speaker. “Dean? Dean!”

* * *  
Sam pulled his car up to Dean's building with a squeal of brakes, and leapt out. He was sick to his stomach to see the single squad car parked under the portico, and a uniformed patrolman talking to the doorman. He pushed through the doors, his other hand drawing his credentials out of the pocket of his cargo shorts.

"I'm Agent Blake's partner. Has he been taken to the hospital?"

"No sir," said the patrolman, eyeing Sam's bare feet. "The doorman called in a suspicious visitor that said he was delivering a package to Apartment 1419. When he didn’t come down, he sent security up to check. The apartment was empty, although the door was wide open. No bodies. There's no sign of a crime."

Sam drew in a shocked breath, and asked if he could go up. Where was Dean?

"Sure. My partner's up there, I was taking a statement from the doorman." The patrolman looked at the doorman. "Is he okay to go up?"

"Sure thing. Go ahead, Agent Moore."

"Mr. Devereaux , I'm going to need you to pull the security footage for all the cameras. Please. On my authority, badge number JTTO4710111."

"Sure, Agent. This is pretty unusual. I'll get the recordings."

Sam took the steps three at a time, eschewing the snail-like elevator. He scanned the stairwell for signs of struggle, finding none, and burst through the fire door. In front of Dean's apartment, a uniformed policeman spoke into his radio, jerking his head up at Sam's approach with his hand on his gun.

Sam put up his hands. "FBI. I am Agent Blake's partner", he put his hand into his pocket, and saw the officer tense.

With two fingers, Sam drew the case from his shorts, shrugging an apology. "Sorry, but he's my partner." Sam rolled his eyes inwardly at the double entendre. He wished there was another word for what he and Dean had, but their working relationship would suffice under the circumstances.

He held the credential up, and kept his other hand raised. The patrolman squinted at him, and Sam stepped closer, holding out his ID and badge.

"Okay, I got him," said the officer. He nodded at Sam, and let go of the radio button. "You got here faster than I thought, sorry."

A dozen questions burned through Sam's mind, but he forced himself to focus. "What do you have?"

The uniform flipped through his notebook. "At 6:47 PM we got a call from Mr. Devereaux, the doorman. He'd let someone up with a package for the tenant, with the tenant's permission."

Sam nodded. "I was on the phone with him."

After a while, the doorman called upstairs, 'cause the man with the package hadn't come down." He looked at Sam. "This is a pretty secure building."

Nodding again, he stepped forward. The uniform put up his arm to block the door. "I've called CSU."

Sam looked into the apartment. Nothing was out of place, but the room was dark, andhe could see Dean's phone glowing on the kitchenette counter."You've been inside?"

"Yessir, no sign of trouble, except for the lightbulbs."

The uneasy feeling in Sam's gut turned to controlled panic. "Did you turn out the lights?"

"No sir, I had to use my flashlight. The lights don't work because the bulbs are shattered. It's the other reason I didn't want you to go in." He glared pointedly at Sam's feet.

Sam shut his eyes. He'd forgotten his shoes. Something inexplicable had happened to Dean. He pulled out his phone and thumbed Harvelle's number into the device.

"Harvelle," she answered wearily.

This is Agent Moore, ma'am. There's been a problem at Agent Blake's residence. He's missing."

"Missing?" she asked, tone shifting to one of alert concern.

Sam looked at his feet. He would never get into the apartment without shoes. He thought he had put his bag in the car in his flight from the pool. He jerked his head at the patrolman, indicating he was going back downstairs. As he hurtled down, he filled Harvelle in on what he knew. Sam kept going out the door, registering the stunned look of the doorman and the patrolman. He pulled his gym bag out of the car and slid on rubber shower shoes. They would have to do. He clipped his ID badge onto his ratty t-shirt.

Harvelle said "I'll send a crime scene unit."

Sam looked up to see the Alexandria PD CSU van. "Local LEOs already here, ma'am."

"Then we will assist. I take this seriously Agent Moore."

"Thank you, ma'am." Sam ended the call without waiting to hear more.

He followed the crime scene unit in, and rode up the elevator with them. They listened to their lead telling them what she knew, and moved quickly when the doors opened. Sam breathed slowly through his nose and out through his mouth as he watched them set up lights to process the scene. He looked at the patrolman. "You're certain there isn't a body inside."

The patrolman looked affronted "It's a studio apartment, sir. I did check."

Chagrined, Sam sent him an apologetic look. "He's my partner."

Light dawned in the patrolman's eyes. "Oh. We'll do our best for you both. Like always."

"Thanks." Sam went downstairs, thinking he could view the security footage.

He heard the uniform at the door say. "Are you a resident, ma'am?"

"This is my brother's building. I have every right to be here."

Sam recognized the woman from weeks ago, after the Walker case. "Sarah?"

Fear shone in the brunette woman's eyes. Sam took in her appearance, dressed for the fancy dinner Dean had planned to escort her to.

"He's not here."

"Where is he? He never showed up for dinner!"

Sam took in the corsage pinned to her gown.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

Sam ushered her to the side of the lobby.

"I remember you! You're his partner, right? Sam. Sam Moore." she asked.

Sam nodded, thinking about her word choice. Had Dean told her their relationship had changed?

"I knew this was going to happen. I had a -- I don't know what to call it. About Dean being taken," she said.

"Taken?" he asked, shaken to the core.

"I uh. was going to tell him at dinner but I was sure he would just laugh at me."

She sat down on the stairs. Sam sat down next to her.

"He would have laughed at me. He doesn't believe in that kind of thing, you know. Premonitions? Do you know what I do?"

Sam nodded uncertainly. "You work for an art house."

Sarah nodded. "Provenance. Provenance is what I do."

There was a flurry of activity near the doors. AD Harvelle was there with several other agents, and she motioned Sam over, taking in his appearance with a sniff.

"I was at the gym, ma'am."

She nodded, and looked to the man at her side. "This is Agent Novak. He will be your legs and whatever else you need until we get Agent Blake back."

Sam put out his hand, and Novak tilted his head to the side, as if he didn't understand the gesture.

Sam shook off the odd reaction and indicated the woman standing alone, to the side. "That's Dean's -- Agent Moore's --sister. Sarah Blake."

The three of them walked back to her. "We will find your brother, Ms. Blake. Novak, with me." she turned and Novak followed in her wake.

Sam turned his attention back to Sarah. "You were saying?"

She took a deep breath. "Last week, I was brought a painting, it was a man, a man who looked like Dean. A hand touches his forehead. You can't see who the hand belongs to, but it comes from a bright place. With wings."

"I'm going to need to see it."

She looked downcast. "You can't. It was stolen yesterday."

* * *

Novak sat at the left of the table, opposite Sam, the rest of the seats were filled with other officials. Harvelle walked around the table slowly as she spoke.

"According to the reports I reviewed, Agent Blake's most recent research is into unexplained events in Broward County Is this the correct?"

She looked at Sam, but his attention was fixed on the tabletop.

Novak cleared his throat, "Yes, ma'am."

"Is there anything else?" asked Harvelle.

Novak spoke again. "He's been looking into the disappearance of his son, but only on his own time."

"He's following his own cold case?" Harvelle asked.

"Yes."

"Well, that's an interesting consideration. Do you think either of these things are related to the disappearance, Agent Moore?"

"There's the question of why anyone would've chosen him as a target in the first place."

"He's in the book." scoffed one of the officials. "It could just as easily be terrorists."

"Agent Blake was talking to me about the Broward case. The person that came to his door claimed they had a file on the case. No file was not found at the scene, I don't believe there is a connection. The Broward case has more to do with urban legend than anything else."

"One of your pet projects, then." scoffed one of the men.

"Agent Blake thought he had new information on his son's abduction?" another man at the table redirected the conversation, with a sour look across the table.

"Yes," agreed Sam, "but that doesn't explain why Agent Blake is missing."

Novak glanced surreptitiously at Sam. He noticed without reacting.

"You're right. Now who could have him?" asked Harvelle.

"I don't know. Our active file is the Hunter case. All other investigations are in support of that."

"Well," she said, "I think we all understand the gravity of this matter and intend to proceed quickly with all possible resources. I need you to turn over your files to H.R.T..."

"I'd like to brief them myself..." began Sam.

"Go home, Agent Moore," Harvelle said, "you've been up all night. Get some sleep."

Sam stood. "Ma'am, I know these cases --."

"You're too close to this case, Moore." She gave him a pitying glance that let Sam know she was aware of his relationship with Dean. "If we can use you, we will."

"Ma'am!" he protested.

"That's an order, Agent Moore." She looked at Novak. "Make sure he gets home safely."

Novak stood with a nod. "Come on." Sam followed him from the room, shoulders slumped in fatigue and defeat.

* * *  
.  
Sam pointed at a monitor showing the surveillance footage of a figure turning the corner in Dean's building. "Right there, please."

The video technician paused the recording. "Okay."

Sam walked over to the technician at the computer. "Can you back it up a few frames?"

The technician hit a series of buttons, but there was nothing distinguishing. Dark trousers and a tan trench coat.  
Sam reached into his pocket to touch the rosary he'd pocketed that morning. "Now forwards."

The image broke into static.

"Sorry, Agent Moore. That's the best look we have. All the other footage is like this," he gestured at the screen.

Sam closed his eyes. _God protect him. Please._  
  
Agent Novak walked in carrying two coffees. "Coffee?"

Sam took the vending machine cup from him, and swallowed the bile threatening to come up. "Thanks."

Novak inclined his head. "How'd you sleep?"

Sam looked at him incredulously. "I didn't."

The agent just blinked at him. Sam had no idea why Harvelle had assigned Novak to him. “I’m going to church. Come or don’t, it makes no difference to me,” said Sam, pulling on his jacket and standing.

“Why would you go to a church?” asked Novak.

“I’m going to pray. For Agent Blake, for help finding him,” explained Sam with the last of his patience.

“God hears everyone,” mused Novak, “you needn’t be at a particular address.” Sam was far enough away that he didn’t acknowledge the words.

 **Meanwhile in the Green Room**  
  
Dean felt cold and uncomfortable. There was an unpleasant tang of ozone in the air, and his head ached.

"Hello, Dean."

Ice water drenched him, and he jerked, nearly toppling the chair he was bound to. Something told him this had happened before. Two men in suits stood before him, and they smiled with malice in their eyes.

“Who are you?” Dean demanded, struggling at his restraints. “Let me go!”

“You are in no position to make demands, mud monkey,” spat the shorter of the two.

“Now, now, Uriel,” the other man said, “Dean here’s being a good sport, so far.” He redirected his attention to Dean, tone mocking. “I am Zachariah. Don’t mind Uriel. He has long forgotten his manners.”

Uriel snorted and glared. Dean gave a futile twist in an attempt at escape. “Where am I?”

“Let’s call it...the Green Room,” Zachariah said. “Dean, we need your help. You, chucklehead, are the Michael sword.”  
“The what, now?”

"You were born, Dean, to carry out this destiny. I don't need to explain it, since you’ve got no choice either way.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. "I'm guessing there's a loophole. You need my consent.”

Uriel sneered. “Unfortunately, our Father had a soft spot for you humans.”

Zachariah ignored him. “It’s a great honor, Dean. Most people spend their lives without changing anything but their underwear. You will save people. You could save the whole world.”

“Fuck you,” Dean told him. “The answer’s no.”

Zachariah sighed. “I was hoping you’d be more cooperative than this. No matter, I’ll give you some time to think it over. There are reasons, Dean. Uriel, why don’t you help him understand?”

Uriel’s smile widened, and he cracked his knuckles before he stepped in front of Dean. “Reason number one.”

He struck, lightning-fast, throwing two neat crosses to Dean’s jaw before moving his attention lower. He slammed into Dean’s ribs and they crunched as they shattered.

Dean coughed blood. “No.”

“Reason number two.”

Uriel broke each of Dean’s fingers with clinical accuracy, smiling as the joints purpled and blackened, blood pooling beneath the surface. Dean was dimly aware the screaming he heard was his own. “No.”

“I can go all millenium, human.”

“Yeah, but you won’t kill me,” Dean labored over the words, voice hoarse. “You need me. And I’m never going to agree.”

"Even if it meant you could save Sam?" asked Zachariah.

Before Dean could react, Uriel clapped his hands together and Dean felt pain unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He was drowning in the red slick of his own blood and still gurgled no.

He heard Zachariah breathe a heavy sigh. "We almost had him that time. Again?"

He was vaguely aware of light and movement, and the most beautiful voice he'd ever heard said, "I tire of this. Let him fall.”

 **Lost is Found**  
  
Sam sat at his desk, staring blankly into space. He went over the last conversation he'd had with Dean again, looked at his notes, thought some more. There was no lead he hadn't followed, no question he hadn't asked. He clutched at his unkempt hair, and felt like howling his anguish when the desk phone rang.

Sam looked at it, and took a deep breath. "Moore."

"Sam? Jake Talley. "Call me back on my cell." He rattled off a number, and Sam dialled it.

"What's all this, Jake?" asked Sam.

"Get down to Washington General. Take a cab. I think we found your partner."

Sam ran out of the building, with Talley still on the line. "Where-- you said hospital.. He's alive?"

"I'm working a body dump in the Locke case. We went out this morning, and found a new grave. He was buried alive. Sam, he's in a bad way."

Sam flagged a cab and barked out his destination. "Did he talk to you? Anything?"

"A bad way, Sam. Real bad. I'm sorry to have to tell you like this, it doesn't look good, but the Sheriff and paramedics took him straight to General."

"Thanks, Jake."

"I'll call Harvelle," said Talley, and disconnected

The cab wove through DC traffic, The promise of a big tip urging the driver on. Sam pushed through the hospital doors, never slowing his pace.

Outside the emergency room, a deputy stood, looking toward the treatment area. The activity within was frantic.

Sam's entrance was noisy and he stopped, panting at the desk. He showed his credentials to the attendant. "I'm Special Agent Sam Moore. My partner, Agent Blake's been brought in? I need an update on his condition."  
The deputy turned, and Sam looked at him.

He was middle-aged, what was left of his graying hair was combed back neatly, beard and mustache trimmed to regulation. He held his trooper's hat in his hands.

"Are you the deputy that rode in with Agent Blake?" demanded Sam. He searched the man for a reaction . "Deputy?"

The deputy didn't say anything; he stood with his mouth open for a stunned moment, taking in Sam's appearance. "Balls." He cleared his throat. "We found him buried alive, in the middle of a field of bodies. EMTs took him straight here. I escorted the ambulance and waited -- waited for you, and now, I'm going back out there. There are a lot more bodies, and they need my help." He looked at Sam for a long moment, and finally strode from the emergency room.

Sam's instinct was to follow the man, but his need to know Dean's condition won out. He turned his attention back to the attendant.

The man typed and looked at his screen, then at Sam.

"You are Samuel Moore?"

Sam presented his credentials again. The attendant took his badge and id, typed some more, and looked up. "Agent Blake has you listed as medical proxy, and the signatory of his living will."

Sam didn't like the sound of that, but it was the fact. "That's correct." He looked at the man's badge. "Dr. Alistair."

The gaunt man nodded and stood. He was as tall as Sam, but his demeanor was unthreatening.

"Your partner has suffered what I believe to be repeated sessions of torture. He has endured a series of severe beatings. There are multiple internal injuries and many, many broken bones."

Sam flinched.

"We have done everything we can to stabilize him, but these injuries are more than life threatening. He will be moving--"

There was a flurry of activity and a gurney being wheeled at speed to the elevator.

"Is being moved," corrected the doctor, "to the ICU. Agent Moore, we have a sister listed as next of kin?"

"I'll call her now," said Sam, eyes on the elevator doors as they closed.

"Good. It will be a comfort to say goodbye."

"Good-bye?" Sam's chest contracted, and the room spun momentarily.

"It's not a positive prognosis."

Sam stared at the doctor, phone in his hand.

"Sam?" came a breathless voice from behind him.

He whirled, and Sarah stood in front of him. "They found him?" She trembled and tears welled.

Sam nodded, and opened his arms. Sarah collapsed against him, sobs wracking her body. How was he going to tell Sarah that Dean wasn't --no. He wouldn't believe it himself.

He turned to the doctor, but he was gone. The emergency room that had been so frantic was eerily quiet, and he steered Sarah to the seating area.

"Sarah, listen to me. The doctor I talked to said--"

"I don't want to hear it. I'm going to sit with him and tell him I love him. Then I'm going to tell him again, and again. Sam, he's all the family I have left." Tears streamed down her face. "He wanted--" she shook her head firmly. "He wants you to be family, too."

Sam gaped.

"He loves you, you idiot."

"I love him, too."

"Good. Let's go. You'll see, Sam. Dean will tell you."

* * *

Sarah's knees buckled, and she would have fallen to the floor, if Sam hadn't had his arms around her.

Dean lay in the bed, a mass of bruises. A tube was down his throat, his eyes were taped shut. The rhythmic pump of the respirator and the constant beep of monitors screamed in Sam's head. Several plastic bags hung on a pole, all hooked to an IV that fed into Dean, keeping him alive. A crash cart was parked just inside the curtain, and a nurse stood next to the bed frowning.

Sarah shuddered, but stepped forward. "I'm Sarah Blake. I'm Dean's sister."

The nurse looked up.

"I'm so sorry," said the nurse, pity in her eyes. "I'm only supposed to let one visitor in here at a time." She looked at Sam curiously.

"You go, Sarah."

"Family only."

"He's family," stated Sarah flatly, daring the nurse to challenge her. She breathed deeply through her nose. "What can you tell us?"

The nurse flipped open Dean's chart, and started listing his injuries. Sam took a step closer to the bed, then another. His fingers skimmed Dean's hand, the barest of touches on the battered and broken flesh. He tuned out the sound of the nurse's voice, eyes on the heart monitor that he couldn't read for the tears clouding his vision. He leaned close to whisper in Dean's ear. "I'm here, Dean. Sarah's here. We love you. I love you, baby."

The sound of the ICU came back to him, and he could hear the nurse still speaking "--induced coma."

The monitor beeped, and Sarah came up behind him. He moved over, and she bent down to kiss Dean lightly. She whispered to him, too.

Sam settled her into the uncomfortable chair at the bedside and asked for directions to coffee.

Minutes turned to hours. Hours turned to a day. Sam made Sarah lie down in the room the hospital provided for ICU patients' families.

He sat with Dean, talking to him, about the weather, about baseball, about work. Sam talked himself hoarse, and Sarah relieved him. He wandered the hospital, finding the chapel and he knelt to pray.

He called Harvelle and updated her every shift change. Inwardly he raged and despaired at intervals.

A day turned into two.

Two became three. Dean was the only patient in ICU, and Sam couldn't help but notice the resigned expressions on the faces of the staff.

The tape was off Dean's eyes, now, but there was no real change otherwise. The urine collection bag still held threads of red, Dean's kidneys were lacerated, but somehow still functioning. The respirator kept Dean breathing, but his brain waves were weaker.

Sarah was exhausted, cried out and hoarse. Sam had talked her into going to his place to shower and change clothes, and she had bullied him into doing the same. The face in the mirror as he shaved was haggard and drawn, too much coffee and too little food. He remembered the man in the bar telling him about desperate personal tragedy. He knew it now.

When he returned to ICU, Sarah was standing outside Dean's curtained alcove, shoulders slumped, defeated.

"Sarah?"

"He seized twice in the last hour. Sam, say goodbye. They don't think he'll make it through the day."

"Oh, God."

"Sam, I can't put him through more of this. He wants to go."

"I don't want to let him go!"

"They're telling me, Sam, he will never ever wake up."

Sam slipped into the alcove and sat in the chair. He took his Bible out and tried to open it, the book fell out of his hands and onto the floor, opening to Leviticus. Sam clapped his hands over his mouth and ran for the bathroom, making it there before he was sick, and sat on the floor weeping.

"Sam, come out. There are arrangements to make, things that have to be decided," Sarah said from the other side of the door.

He got up and opened the door, then went back to the sink to rinse his mouth and wash his face.

"Not yet, Sarah, please, not yet." He pushed past her and walked the corridors until he found an exit.

Sam called Harvelle. "The doctors are saying Agent Blake won't make it through the day."

"Agent Moore --"

"I'm just checking in per your request." He hung up and wandered the corridors until he found more coffee and an exit.

Stepping through the door, Sam found himself in a beautiful garden, the fragrance of flowers heady; the sunlight blinding. He plopped down onto the nearest bench, hands shaking so badly, he almost dropped the coffee. Losing Dean That was unacceptable. He had searched his entire life for that love, that absolute connection. He was not willing, nor able to let that go. He bowed his head, went to his knees, but the certainty he'd always felt through prayer wasn't there. His shoulders shook with the horrible reality of it.

"Excuse me." The gardener gestured at his bucket, filled with gardening tools and labeled Joshua. Sam sniffed, nodding his head.

"You okay, sir?" asked the gardener.

"No." Exhausted, Sam's filters were gone. He blurted at the man. "My partner, they say he won't make it through the day. I feel like God -- God isn't hearing me."

"God hears everything, sir."

Sam looked at him through his tears. "You might think that."

"I believe," said the gardener simply.

"Oh, I believe" said Sam, dashing the tears away, "He's just not listening. I sinned, I loved in a way He doesn't approve."

"Come on, sir, let me get you back to your partner. It's where you need to be."

Sam shuffled along with him, scared as hell, aching with grief.

They walked into ICU, Sam kept thinking someone would stop them. Sarah sat upright, but sound asleep next to Dean's bed. He looked at Dean, gritting his teeth to hold back the tears. This was his partner, his life, and he was going to lose him.

The gardener gasped in shock. "This is not what God planned for this boy."

"I don't know His intention. I only know I didn't stop what happened. We sinned, you see." Sam gestured at the Bible still on the edge of Dean's bed.

"That? You believe that bad houseguests," the gardener looked at Sam, "and the words of a lonely old man in Rome decide his fate? I know better; so do you, boy. It's just a book."

The light bulb above Sam's head exploded, showering glass in his hair. As he brushed it away, the rhythmic sound of the respirator stopped. He cleared the space to the bed in a single pace and pulled the tube from Dean's throat. If Dean couldn't breathe, he would breathe for him until help came. That was simple.

Sam would swear afterwards that he heard the sound of wings unfurling behind him, as he breathed into Dean. It was the last thing he could do, lose himself in the rise and fall of his love. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Electricity crackled, as he pushed his breath in, and he was answered with a searing pain in his ribs. He pulled back for more air, and latched onto Dean. Who kissed him back. Startled, Sam gasped.

"You taste like old coffee." Dean breathed into his mouth.

Oh my God!" Sarah screamed.

"Sammy." Dean breathed.

"I'm here, babe. I love you so much," Sam babbled, taking another breath.

Rushing footsteps and the beeping of monitors pierced Sam's consciousness, as he drew in another breath.

"Move, move. move!" he heard.

Hands pushed him away, but the moss green eyes never left his.

"Sam, what just happened?" asked Sarah.

"I -- I went out to the garden, and the gardener walked me back. Sarah," he said, knowing his eyes were wide and wondering, "I just don't know."

The doctors and nurses were crowding Dean's bed, and he leaned on the counter at the nurses station. "Do you know who that was?" he asked the woman at the desk. "The gardener?"

"Gardener?" she asked. "Mister, we're in the middle of DC, we ain't got a garden or a gardener."

 **On our way back home**  
  
“What about my stuff?” asked Dean.

“What stuff?”

“I don’t know, my jammies, Sam.”

“You won’t need them.”

“Um, the plants?”

Sam pulled onto the shoulder and brought the car to a halt. “Dean, is there a reason you want to go to your place? Is it me you want to get away from?” Sam wondered what crime scene had done with Dean's apartment, if it was still intact. He hadn't had the courage to go there.

Dean saw the hurt in Sam’s eyes. “I just thought it was closer.” He slid his hand under Sam’s shirts.

“You have a sofa bed,” Sam’s tone softened. “We are neither one of us petite, and the things I want to do with you require a bigger work area.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Carry on.”

* * *

"Sam?" Dean said, much later, in the dark.

"Yeah?"

"I know I told the Bureau I didn't remember anything."

Sam rolled over, bumping knees with Dean. "You remember something?"

"I told him. That guy.... I told him I wanted to remember."

"What guy? Remember what?" asked Sam, switching on the light.

"The old guy, the one who came to get me. Two things." One perfect tear rolled down Dean's cheek. "I wanted to remember you. Most of all I wanted to remember that I said no."

"To what?" asked Sam.

"That, I don't remember."

Sam folded Dean into his arms, and lay back on the bed, thanking God he still had him.

 

 

 

 

 

  


 

 

 

  
 **RHPS**  
  
Sam and Dean followed the lanky suspect into the local theater's midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Before the show the live cast performed before the screen, calling out the virgins and marking their foreheads with lipstick. Dean laughed with delight and Sam looked at him curiously.

"I did this when I was in college. Started as a Transylvanian, made it all the way up to Frank."

"You did Rocky Horror."

"Yeah," Dean admitted, sheepishly.

"In a corset and heels?"

"And fishnets, too. Why?"

"You have no notion of how turned on I am over that." He pulled Dean's hand into his lap in the corner of the darkened theater.

Dean's eyes widened, and he licked his lips. "I plan to take full ad--"

A frightened scream came from the side door, and Dean checked to see the suspect was in his seat before he ran after Sam.

* * *

Sam didn’t think Garth was actually a Hunter, he didn’t match the profile, but he had definitely been in the cemetery with a shovel, salt and gasoline.

The suspect leaned back from the table, as far as the cuffs would let him. Dean leaned back, too, stretching his legs.

They had been at this for over an hour. Sam’s gaze travelled down Dean’s leg, appreciating the view, and stopped. He stopped dead at Dean’s ankle. There was no way he was seeing the weave of fishnet hose, was there? A quick look at Dean’s face, and Sam pushed back his chair and picked up his coffee, as all the blood rushed to his groin.

“I’m not sure that matches the facts, Garth. Agent Blake, I need a word, please?”

“Sure. You stay put, huh, Garth?” Dean said. “Bring you something back?”

“I would love a Dr. Pepper, man.”

“See what I can do.”

Sam used up the last of his active brain cells to check the table to be sure there was nothing there the Hunter could use to free himself, and followed his partner out of the room.

“What’s up, Sam?” asked Dean. “Something I missed in questioning?”

“You. Stairs. Now,” barked Sam, jerking his head towards the service stairs at the side of the interrogation room. His erection was making itself known against the front of his boxer briefs.

Dean smirked, but stepped into the stairwell, turning to look at Sam, expectantly.

Sam dug in his pocket for coins and pennied the door. “Are you,” Sam swallowed convulsively before continuing, “wearing fishnet hose under your trousers?”

Dean nodded, his eyes darkening.

“Why are you not in my mouth?” Sam reached for Dean’s belt.

“Because we are in the stairwell of a police station and questioning a suspect?”

Sam noticed Dean wasn’t batting his hands away as he undid the buckle, and pulled out the tails of his starched white shirt. Sam gaped. Under his conservative Armani trousers, Dean wore suspendered fishnet tights, under black silk boy shorts.

Sam closed his eyes for a brief moment.  "I just came in my pants."

Dean grinned lasciviously, and tucked his shirt back in. "Let's go finish with the suspect, and I'll let you undress me at the hotel."

Sam groaned. "Tease."

"Sometimes."

* * *  
Well, Mr. Fitzgerald--" began Sam.

"Call me Garth."

Dean schooled his features to hide the laugh that was threatening to burst out.

"Garth, then. We don't have anything to hold you on, so we're cutting you loose.”

"Oh, super! You know, I heard the guard talking about the accident at the theater last night. I knew the family back a ways. Her sister lives up on top of that theater in an apartment. I sure hope she's okay." He waved. "See you again, sometime."

Sam looked at Dean, "Afternoon delight's going to have to wait, huh?"

"Yeah. It'll keep, though. Let's go visit the dead girl's sister."

* * *  
"Ms. Bender, I'm Agent Blake. This is my partner, Agent Moore."

The girl couldn't have been more than 23, rail-thin and wary. Her eyes were red from crying, and Dean shifted his weight uneasily. "Can we have a few moments of your time?"

"Come in," she said. "You want to ask me about my sister." She preceded them up the stairs to her apartment, a 4th floor walk up in an unassuming part of town. She shook her head, and moved a stack of papers off the table in the kitchen. "Sit. That's my schoolwork. My pa was an evil, horrible man. If he was still alive, I'd point you right to him, but he's the only one I can think of might've hurt Missy, and I took this apartment to be sure I could keep an eye on him." She nodded out the window.

It overlooked the cemetery, and Dean could see a lanky figure standing on the hill.

The air grew cold, and Dean looked at Sam, whose eyes were darting all around the room. The girl let out a shriek, and flew through the air into the wall, slamming hard against it, and falling face first onto the floor. She flew into the air again, screaming in terror. Sam caught her, and she clung to him, sobbing. Dean could see Sam's lips moving in prayer as the figure in the cemetery threw something. Flames shot up, and Dean reached for his phone. In the far corner of the room a pillar of smoke rose and advanced on Sam and the girl, before crumbling, leaving a pile of ash.  
In the cemetery, the figure slung a shovel over his shoulder and sauntered away.

"Evil, horrible man," the girl repeated, and Dean dialed 911.

Once the fire marshal was satisfied, Dean insisted on driving to the cemetery and finding the Bender graves. One stone marked them, Jared, Lee and Pa. The recently replaced grass showed signs of scorching at the edges.

 

 

 

 

 

  


 

 

 

Sam put a hand out to stop Dean from walking into the crime scene.

"Dean, don't."

"Sam, I just put her in the ambulance, EMTs are pretty sure there's no saving her sight. She was my therapist -- my friend. I need to see the room."

"What did she say?"

"First? They wanted her records. All her files on some client. Winchester was the name."

"Winchester? Who the fuck is that?"

"Damned if I know."

"Dean, CSU is in there. Is there anything in your file they could be after?"

"They didn't ask for me."

"No, but your file is square in the middle of her desk."

* * *

The crime scene unit has shone their black lights on the walls, where they found glyphs on the walls leading to Pamela's office.

"There's one on the floor and a couple of steps further on the ceiling." said Sam.

"They look like the ones Walker drew in the barn."

"Yeah."

* * *  
Dean disconnected the call. There was no improvement, Pamela would be blind the rest of her life. Dean shuddered, and turned to find Sam's eyes on him, questioning.

"Did we do this to her?" he asked, "Something we did?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's time to circle the wagons. Check on our families, our friends."

Dean nodded. "Sarah's been talking about a new job, in England."

Sam wondered if that was far enough. "Would you -- I need to go see my mom," Sam admitted. "She's fading, not just her memory, but her health."

"I'd like to go," Dean answered.

 

 

 

 

 

  


 

 

 

  
 **Mother's love  
**  
Sam had to present both of their credentials at the gate.

"What kind of a place is this?"

The kind of place where people who know a lot about a lot of things go when they can't remember not to tell," said Sam.

They parked the car, and walked to the entrance, Sam's hand brushing Dean's for reassurance. Dean grasped it firmly. "It's your mom, dude."

"I know," said Sam. "I just -- Dean, I never brought anyone home before. No one was ever important enough, but you are. You are."

Dean squeezed his hand, and Sam didn't let go.

They climbed the stairs and checked in at the desk.

"Sam! It's so nice to see you again, and Tina will be glad to see you."

"How's she doing, Missouri?" asked Sam.

A shadow darkened the woman's face. "I gotta be honest, I don't know how long she has, Sam."

Sam took a deep breath. "We knew it wouldn't be long after her last stroke."

She nodded, and gestured another attendant over. "Ruby, can you take over? I want to walk Sam upstairs."

"I can take him," offered the petite brunette.

"I want to."

"Sure, Missouri." The brunette took over the front desk, and smiled at Sam.

Dean watched Sam go professional and courteous. "Thank you, Ruby. Missouri and my mom go way back."

Missouri walked them upstairs, and opened the door. "Tina, Sam's here, love."

To Dean's eyes, the woman in the bed was nearly transparent, but her eyes lit up at the sight of her son. "Sammy!"

Sam turned into a little boy before Dean's eyes, as his long legs covered the distance to her bedside. "Hi, mom." He leaned over and kissed the woman on the cheek.

"Oh, Sammy, it's good to see you. Who's your friend?"

"Mom," said Sam, and Dean could hear him swallow. "This is Dean."

The woman started. "Dean? Little Dean all grown up? Oh, Sam, you found him!"

"Mom?" asked Sam, eyes wide.

"Oh Sammy, we would have taken him, raised you together, but Pastor Jim said it wasn't safe."

Dean stepped forward. "I am very pleased to meet you, ma'am."

Tears welled in her eyes. "Oh Dean. Have you had a good life? Let me look at you!"

He came closer, and Tina reached out a hand to each of them.

"You've found each other." She smiled, beatifically, and breathed her last.

* * *

Dean carried the large envelope into the kitchen.

"What's that?" asked Sam.

"When we were in River Grove, when you were … when I was afraid I was going to lose you? I had them do your bloodwork, your DNA. These are the results."

Dean turned to pour himself a cup of coffee, laying the envelope on the counter with his back to Sam.

Uneasy about how Dean was acting, Sam walked up behind him, placing his hands on Dean's shoulders. Dean leaned back against him, and trembled. Sam could see the envelope had been opened, so Dean was familiar with what was inside.

"What's wrong? Am I dying?" asked Sam.

"Your DNA results are in that envelope. So are mine, I pulled them from Ty's file."

Sam stayed silent, waiting for Dean to tell him what he had already guessed.

"What your mom said, about raising us together? We're brothers, Sam." Dean bent over, holding his head in his hands, elbows on the counter.

Sam stood stock still. Thinking it was possible, and having scientific proof in front of him, those were two different things, neither of which mattered when it came to Dean.

"Dean--" Sam began, and plopped into his chair and dropped his head into his hands as well.

"I don't know Sam," Dean answered the unasked question with anguish in his voice. "What do you want to do?"

"Everything I want, every future I can imagine has you in it. I don't want to lose you."

Dean crouched in front of him and pulled Sam's hands away from his face.

"Are we hurting anyone?"

Sam barked a laugh. "Incest, Dean. It's the taboo that crosses all cultures."

"This morning, we didn't know. Has anything changed between us?"

There was nothing but love in Sam's eyes. "Not for me. You're it, Dean."

"You're all I've got, Sammy." Dean straightened, and shook out his trousers. "We go on as we have. Love, honor, protect. That's what we have."

"Together."

Dean stuck out his hand. "'til death parts us."

Sam took his hand, and raised it to his lips, brushing the knuckles with his lips. Tears filled his eyes, and he blinked hard to keep them from falling. "for time and all eternity."

"Not wearing magic underwear for you dude. Fishnets don’t count."

And with that, it was all okay.

Sam breathed through his mouth and knuckled at his eyes. "Pastor Jim, she said. What was the name of Meg's victim, the Pastor?" Sam stood and walked to the coffeemaker, wondering why the earth hadn't spun off its access defining their new normal.

 

 

 

 

 

  
 ****

 

 

  
 **  
**  
Summer was turning into fall when the decapitations started again, this time in Sioux City, Iowa. Dean cursed when the police report came across his desk. "You think -- ." He picked up the phone while Sam gave him an amused look. It hadn't been more than eight months ago that Dean was scoffing at the notion of vampire hunters.

"Walker escaped three months ago," Sam said.

Dean stopped dialing and looked at Sam. "When were you going to tell me?"

"It slipped my mind while you were in a coma, Dean."

"Huh. Fine."

Sam tried to gauge Dean's mood. He seemed to be okay, in spite of a disastrous dinner with his sister the previous night. Dean had told her about the DNA results, and she told him she needed space. The job in London that she was taking would give them that. To her credit, thought Sam, she hadn't suggested they break it off.

Dean was on the phone again, and grinned when he hung up. "My old buddy Gabriel is in the field office in Sioux Falls. They got a report this morning a a disoriented, anemic young woman with puncture wounds on her throat. Think they'll let us back into their airport?" asked Dean.

* * *

"What we had," explained Agent Gabriel, "Lead to this Dixon character, a pimp with a warehouse in the old part of town. When we went there to investigate, we found two corpses. Young women, maybe 20, whose heads had been torn off."

"Torn off?" asked Dean, startled.

"Yeah. Did you expect something different?"

"Our killer's MO is decapitation," said Sam, and he wondered when that had stopped horrifying him.

"Well, Dixon, he was still alive when we got there. Mostly off his nut, talking about the blood of a dead man, but he said it was a guy named Walker killed his girls."

Sam nodded. "Walker's our guy."

"Well, before he went up in smoke, Dixon said he changed Walker, whatever that means."

"Up in smoke," repeated Dean.

"Yeah," said Gabriel, "after he caught on fire."

"What'd he mean, changed?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Come on, coffee place across the street is almost good."

Dean dispensed coffee from the urn, and put a lid on his cup while he watched Sam and Gabriel debate the merits of chocolate vs. sugar glazed doughnuts. Someone walked behind him too closely and Dean turned to see the door closing. He looked down at his cup to see a post-it note stuck to the top.

 _1408 Oriole.  
_  
* * *

Dean ran through the trees. He didn't know what had changed about Walker, but the man ran through the darkened woods like it was daylight. They'd gone to the address on the note, and surprised Walker, who had taken off into the woods. Dean drew up, _It was too easy_. He turned to say so to Sam, but his partner had already stepped into the clearing.

"I don't know how you manage to get out of bed in the morning as dumb as you are, FBI. Get your partner out here. You have a lot to pay for, and I'm gonna be sure it's in full.

"I'm all by myself, Walker, and I'm bringing you in."

Dean wondered how many cowboy movies Sam had watched as a kid to pull out that line, but Walker was talking again.

"I can smell, him., FBI. I can hear his heart beating. I've got you now. I will turn you both into vampires, and you'll see what it is to be hunted!" screamed Walker.

His face underwent a transformation, and Dean heard Sam gasp in horror as an extra set of pointed, dangerous-looking teeth descended from his jaw.

A man stepped in front of Walker. "Don't do this, Gordon."

"Leave me the fuck alone, Kubrik," roared Walker. His hand shot out and tore Kubrik's heart out of his chest. He threw it on the ground, still pulsing blood. Kubrik crumpled to the ground, and Walker advanced on Sam, who backed away, drawing his gun. He tripped over a rock and sprawled on the ground, gun knocked from his hand.

"No!", shouted Dean, shooting Walker. The bullet knocked him back, but didn't stop him. Dean shot again as he closed on Sam.

With a whistling sound, a blade separated Walker's head from his body. It bounced, rolling a few feet away, and the teeth Dean thought he had seen were gone.

Walker's torso tipped to the side, sprawling in an ungainly heap, scant inches from Sam's feet.

The man they had interviewed in the Bender case stood behind Walker's corpse, holding a machete. He raised his free hand in a wave, waggling his fingers. "Hi, Agent Moore, Agent Blake."

Sam's brain caught up to his adrenalin. "You're Garth. Garth Fitzgerald. We met in Hibbing."

"You remember me!"

"What just happened here?" asked Dean, as he hauled Sam to his feet.

Garth shrugged. "Saving people, hunting things."

"You're a Hunter?

"I thought you knew.. You could join us, you'd be really good Hunters."

"We're FBI."

"Yeah, now, but you've seen stuff you can't unsee."

Dean scoffed. "How would we live? Come on, you got to be kidding me. How would we get by—with stolen credit cards? Eating diner food drenched in saturated fats? Sharing a crap motel room every night?"

"Those are details," said Garth.

"Details are everything!" exclaimed Dean. "You don't want to go fighting these things without any health insurance."

Sam laughed aloud, and picked Dean up off his feet. "We're alive. Again!"

Dean laughed too, once his feet were back on the ground. "Thanks Garth, but we have to give it a pass. I'm going to give you one this time, too. Get out of here."

Garth nodded. "We'll see each other again."

 

 

 

 

 

  


 

 

 

  


Out of sight in the trees, a bearded man watched Garth come towards them. "You owe me $10, John."

The scruffy man ruffled his grandson's hair. "That, I do. Come on, Ty."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This work would never have come about without Kim Manners. I miss his talent every episode.


End file.
